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THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 


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J.   M.    DENT    &   SONS   LTD. 


THE 


STREET  OF  TO-DAY 


BY 


JOHN    MASEFIELD 


By  the  Street  of  To-day 
Man  goes  to  the  House  of  To-morrow 


LONDON:   J.  M.  DENT  &  SONS  LTD. 
NEW    YORK:     E.    P.    BUTTON    &    CO. 


" 


FIRST  EDITION         .          .          .     March  1911 
SECOND  EDITION      .          .          .     October  1911 


All  rights  reserved 


to  LUCr 


285476 


O  beauty,  I  have  wandered  far; 
Peace,  I  have  suffered  seeking  thee: 
Life,  I  have  sought  to  see  thy  star 
That  other  men  might  see. 

And  after  wandering  nights  and  days, 
A  gleam  in  a  beloved  soul 
Shows  how  life's  elemental  blaze 
Goes  wandering  through  the  whole, 

Bearing  the  discipline  of  earth 
That  earth,  controlled,  may  bring  forth  flowers. 
O  may  our  labours  help  the  birth 
Of  nobler  souls  than  ours. 


July  6th ,  1 909.  A  ugust  i  $th,  1910. 


THE   STREET  OF   TO-DAY 

BOOK  I 
CHAPTER  I 

LIONEL  HESELTINE  sat  at  dinner  between  a  sporting 
lady  and  a  Dean's  daughter.  He  talked  to  the  sporting 
lady  about  the  diseases  of  "  toy  Poms/'  gravely  telling 
her  to  inject  corrosive  sublimate.  To  the  Dean's 
daughter,  who  was  as  idle  as  the  other,  but  less  vivacious, 
he  imparted  the  laws  of  Mendel  in  relation  to  the  sweet- 
pea.  He  was  not  constantly  employed  in  these  ways. 
Sometimes  both  ladies  were  engaged  with  the  men 
beyond  them.  At  such  times  he  surveyed  the  guests, 
gravely  smiling,  while  his  long,  brown,  clinical  fingers 
rolled  minute  bread-pills  under  the  table. 

The  dinner  was  a  small  one,  for,  though  there  were 
more  than  twenty  people  present,  thirteen  of  them  were 
members  of  the  family.  The  host  was  his  old  chief, 
Sir  Patrick  Hamlin.  The  guests  were  mostly  bright 
young  persons  of  the  kind  beloved  by  the  old,  for  their 
looks  and  gaiety.  Looking  down  the  table,  Lionel  saw 
only  one  face  which  impressed  him.  The  rest  had  no 
faces;  they  had  only  coloured  flesh,  bright  eyes,  and 
good  teeth.  Lady  Hamlin  was  out  of  sight  behind  the 
flowers  in  the  great  Spanish  vases.  Old  Sir  Patrick's 
grim  mug  was  hidden  by  the  head  of  the  lady  who  was 
talking  to  him.  There  was  a  profusion  of  old  silver 
everywhere.  The  food  and  wine  did  more  credit  to  Sir 
Patrick's  income  than  to  his  position  as  a  scientist. 

A 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Looking  down  the  table,  Lionel  wondered  at  the  want 
of  faces.  That  was  the  only  want.  There  were  no 
faces;  except  the  one  face,  far  down,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table. 

The  sporting  lady  turned  to  ask  him  if  he  would  enter 
for  a  "  mixed  foursome  "  to  be  played  at  Sandwich,  on 
the  following  Sunday.  One  of  the  men  had  sprained 
his  wrist,  and  another  man  was  wanted  badly.  Lionel 
was  sorry,  but  he  could  not  come.  The  links  were 
awfully  good,  were  they  not?  Yes,  and  you  could  get 
there  and  back  so  easily.  Really,  the  sporting  lady  did 
not  know  how  one  had  lived  before  motors.  Lionel, 
looking  at  her,  wondered  at  the  restlessness  of  the  life 
which  had  made  her  face  feverish  and  hard  at  the  same 
time.  He  wondered  to  what  depths  of  selfishness  one 
could  sink  in  a  life  of  "  playing  the  game."  He  could 
not  tell.  He  thought  that  if  this  lady,  with  the  hard 
eyes,  and  the  hard  mouth,  and  pretty  hair,  took  a  fancy, 
she  would  stick  at  nothing  to  gratify  it.  She  was 
bright,  she  was  clever,  she  was  capable.  Yet  her  face 
was  not  a  soul's  index;  there  was  no  character  in  it; 
only  a  desire  to  be  gratified,  in  some  expensive,  correct, 
and  foolish  way.  She  wished  to  be  amused.  Looked 
at  for  more  than  two  seconds,  she  displayed  the  sign  of 
a  secret  bitterness  at  not  being  amused  enough. 

There  was  the  same  air  of  feverish  weariness  in  the 
face  of  the  Dean's  daughter.  It  was  the  familiar  face 
of  one  who  has  been  taught  accomplishments  and 
amusements  at  high  pressure,  in  preparation,  not  for 
life,  but  for  society.  Glancing  at  the  Dean's  daughter, 
,  as  her  hard  little  laugh  thanked  him  for  a  jest,  he 
wondered  what  the  real  woman  might  be,  under  the 
mask,  under  all  the  accomplishment,  the  music  and  the 
games.  He  wondered  what  would  reveal  the  real 
woman.  Nothing  very  grand,  he  thought.  He  was 
not  sure.  This  face  was  stronger  than  the  other.  It  . 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  3 

asked,  not  for  amusement,  but  for  its  own  way,  an 
easy  way,  but  still  its  own.  Somehow,  he  could  not 
see  a  possible  old  age  for  either  woman.  Neither  would 
marry.  They  were  the  feminine  of  subaltern,  without 
the  subaltern's  chance  of  promotion. 

In  a  lull,  which  reminded  him  of  the  sudden  stopping 
of  fire  in  an  engagement,  he  looked  down  the  table 
again,  at  the  face  which  had  impressed  him.  It  was 
that  of  a  woman  of  about  forty-seven,  in  the  prime  of 
life.  She  was  the  only  guest  of  mature  years,  since  he, 
who  evidently  came  next  to  her  in  age,  was  not  yet 
thirty.  She  sat  between  a  young  soldier,  and  a  slight, 
hatchet-faced  man,  whom  Lionel  knew  to  be  Maunsel, 
a  naval  lieutenant,  Sir  Patrick's  sister's  son.  The  sailor, 
who  was  a  clever  talker,  was  amusing  her.  The  soldier, 
who  seemed  puzzled,  was  fonder  of  his  other  neighbour. 

She  was  tall,  for  a  woman.  She  was  beautiful  from 
character,  not  from  feature.  Her  eyes,  which  were 
large  and  dark,  gave  the  face  earnestness  and  pathos  at 
the  same  time.  The  mouth  was  large,  but  with  a  play 
upon  it  singularly  winning.  The  nose  was  rather  small, 
but  with  the  broad,  flat  base  of  so  many  intellectual 
heads.  The  ears  were  small.  The  eyebrows  dark  and 
thick.  The  brow  royal.  The  hair  was  heaped  up  above 
the  brow  in  a  great  dark  mass.  The  face  was  rather 
pale.  Its  expression,  to  the  casual  observer,  was 
thoughtful  and  dreamy.  The  casual  observer  did  not 
heed  the  great  eyes  burning  and  the  vivacity  of  the 
play  of  the  mouth. 

Lionel  could  not  be  sure  that  she  wore  a  wedding 
ring.  He  could  not  see  her  left  hand.  She  could 
hardly  be  married,  he  thought,  since  there  was  no  one 
there  who  could  be  her  husband.  "  She  is  a  fine  enough 
spirit  to  have  a  tragical  marriage,"  he  said  to  himself. 
The  next  instant,  he  was  discussing  dancing  with  the 
Dean's  daughter.  "  So  she  was  dancing  at  the  Mara- 


4  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

bouts?  "  "  Yes,  and  it  is  great  fun.  I've  just  learned 
the  wiggle-waggle.  Do  you  know  the  wiggle-waggle?  " 

"  The  single  wiggle-waggle?  It's  like  this,  isn't  it?  " 
He  mimicked  the  step  with  drumming  fingers.  She 
laughed. 

"That's  only  the  single,"  she  said.  "The  double 
wiggle-waggle  begins  like  the  double  flip-flap."  She 
illustrated  with  her  fingers.  "  Then  you  do  the  crab- 
step.  And  then  you  go  like  this."  Here  her  fingers 
began  to  race. 

"  And  you  have  those  long  shoes,  like  racing  skates  ?  "" 

"  Yes.  Curled  up  at  the  ends.  And  your  skirt  keeps 
catching  in  the  ends." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Lionel,  "  that  you  would  teach  me. 
I'll  tell  you  what  you  can't  do,  Miss  Plunket.  You 
can't  do  the  Ghost  Dance.  I  saw  a  man  do  it  in  Africa. 
Horrid.  I'll  teach  you  the  Ghost  Dance  if  you'll  teach 
me  the  double  wiggle-waggle." 

"  All  right.  Come  in  some  morning.  Or  come  to 
the  Tuesday  Club.  Come  to  the  Tuesday  Club  to- 
morrow. Dora  will  be  with  me.  You  know  Dora." 

"  Thanks.  We'll  do  the  wiggle-waggle  to  music. 
Have  you  got  castanets  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  Don't  you  love  castanets?  Oh,  they  go 
right  through.  They  give  you  all  sorts  of  weird  things. 
I  like  doing  cachuca,  or  cueca.  Oh,  don't  talk  about 
castanets,  or  I  shall  begin  to  dance  here.  You  can  put 
your  head  right  back,  and  smile,  and  then  the  delicious 
little  run  forward.  And,  oh,  the  snapping  when  you 
sway." 

"  Yes,  castanets  are  glorious.  But  have  you  ever 
seen  bajados?  Or  heard  them,  I  mean?  " 

"  No.     What  are  bajados  ?  " 

"  They're  a  kind  of  a  Spanish  bell-clapper.  A  friend 
of  mine  got  some  from  Costa  Rica.  They're  castanets, 
as  it  were,  with  a  bell-motif.  You  hold  them  in  your 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  5 

hand,  just  like  castanets,  and  you  dance  to  bells,  instead 
of  to  bones.  They're  not  quite  so  primitive  as  the 
bones." 

"  I  like  primitive  things,"  she  said.  "  Did  you  ever 
dance  to  a  tom-tom?  A  friend  of  mine  got  one  once 
and  played  it  while  I  danced." 

"  What  did  you  dance?     A  breakdown?  " 

"  No.  I  had  my  dance  time  in  my  head.  But  all 
the  time  the  tom-tom  was  going,  I  seemed  to  be  out  of 
my  body,  dancing  to  that.  It  was  the  most  delicious 
feeling.  I  felt  ail  sorts  of  primitive  things." 

"Miss  Plunket,"  said  Lionel.  "We  mustn't  be 
primitive  any  longer.  Lady  Hamlin's  beginning 
muster." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  beginning  to  rustle,  "  to-morrow. 
The  Tuesday  Club,  Gainsborough  Studios,  off  Tite 
Street,  at  eleven?" 

"  Thanks,"  he  said,  standing  up.  The  ladies  were  off. 
Miss  Plunket  turned,  as  she  went,  and  softly  called  to 
him. 

"  Bring  your  Bajadozes,"  she  said.  He  noticed  that 
her  hair  was  very  pretty,  done  in  that  fluffy  way. 

"  I  will,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  If  I  can  find  my  friend," 
he  added.  She  was  too  far  away  to  hear  the  last.  The 
sporting  lady,  catching  up  Miss  Plunket,  passed  out 
with  her.  Both  girls  were  laughing.  He  saw  the 
beautiful  woman  pass  out.  She  had  a  pale,  dreamy  face, 
he  thought.  Her  dress  was  a  severe  black  silk,  with 
some  old  jewels  at  the  breast.  She  walked  slowly.  At 
the  door,  little  Polly  Hamlin,  Sir  Patrick's  youngest 
girl,  just  out,  raced  up  to  her  and  caught  her  hand. 
The  woman's  face  lit  up.  She  stroked  the  girl's  hand, 
and  laughed.  They  went  out  of  the  room  side  by  side. 

The  door  closed.  The  men  drew  up  their  chairs. 
Old  Sir  Patrick,  gathering  a  group  about  him,  ex- 
plained the  qualities  of  his  cigars,  exposed  in  many 


6  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

boxes.  He  praised  a  light  cigar  from  Borneo,  and  a 
long  light  cheroot,  pierced  with  a  straw,  from  Ceylon. 
For  the  moment  no  one  spoke  to  Lionel.  The  men  were 
choosing  their  cigars,  or  offering  each  other  matches. 
Lionel  helped  himself  to  a  cigar,  and  lit  it,  still  thinking 
of  the  woman's  look,  when  her  face  lit  up.  "  Women 
aren't  a  sex.  They're  a  free-masonry,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. He  envied  Polly  Hamlin  that  look.  He  envied 
the  woman  that  was  so  beloved  of  Polly.  "  Women 
get  all  the  love  in  this  world,"  he  said  to  himself.  Even 
if  he  lived  to  be  forty-seven,  no  boy  of  eighteen  would 
race  up  to  greet  him  with  quite  such  evident  affection. 
To  be  loved  by  a  woman.  That  was  glory  enough  for 
one  life.  They  were  so  far  above  men.  They  were  so 
sacred.  So  beautiful.  He  was  in  love  with  his  work, 
of  course;  but  work  was  not  everything.  Wanting 
love,  he  wanted  inspiration.  What  would  it  be  to  have 
a  woman  like  that  in  his  life?  A  woman  like  that 
beautiful  pale  thing  with  the  great  brow.  To  have 
those  eyes  looking  into  his,  with  love,  and  trust,  and 
sympathy.  To  know  what  went  on  in  the  brain  there. 
To  have  that  life  merged  into  his.  To  be  the  body  to 
that  soul. 

He  was  in  a  dangerous,  sentimental  mood  about 
women.  He  was  just  back  from  the  wilds.  It  was 
nine  months  since  he  had  spoken  to  an  English  lady. 
Only  eight  weeks  before,  he  had  been  grilling  in  an 
African  pest-house,  where  the  only  women  were  a 
maniacal  case  of  sleeping  sickness  and  a  hag  with  itch. 
Now  he  was  back  among  all  these  wonderful,  beautiful 
women  to  whom  a  man  could  kneel  and  pray,  they  were 
so  exquisite.  All  through  dinner  he  had  been  watching 
them.  Their  dresses,  and  scents,  and  jewels,  their 
arms,  their  hair.  They  had  been  a  wonder  and  an 
intoxication.  And  yet,  he  thought,  as  the  tobacco 
dulled  his  excitement,  there  was  only  one  woman  among 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  7 

them.  That  woman  in  the  black  silk  was  the  only  one 
who  could  bring  a  man  upon  his  road.  The  others  were 
bright,  delightful  companions,  or  playmates,  or  play- 
things. Some  of  them,  and  these  the  most  attractive, 
were  less  even  than  these.  They  were  of  the  nature  of 
those  fish,  which  float  with  the  sea's  current,  till  a  ship 
or  a  shark  drive  by,  to  which  they  can  affix  themselves 
by  suction.  Once  affixed,  they  never  let  go,  though 
the  shark  scrape  his  hide  to  strips  on  the  rocks,  or  the 
shipmen  worry  with  patent  scrubbers.  They  are  drags 
upon  ship  and  shark,  so  that  either  moves  wearily, 
when  once  the  suckers  have  taken  hold.  The  suckers 
even  insult  in  some  cases  that  the  clogged  do  not  move 
fast  enough  for  their  pleasure. 

"  Hullo,  Heseltine,"  said  Maunsel,  the  naval  lieu- 
tenant, as  he  settled  himself  into  the  chair  next  to 
Lionel.  "Are  you  just  back  from  somewhere?.  By 
Jove,  you're  burnt.  Been  in  India?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lionel.  "  Africa.  Doing  sleeping  sick- 
ness. What  are  you  doing?  You  look  a  bit  peaked. 
Are  you  staying  here  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  crocked  my  leg,  jumping  a  ditch.  I'm 
staying  up  till  the  New  Year,  getting  massaged.  Won't 
you  have  some  port  ?  " 

"  No,  thanks.     Your  uncle's  looking  well." 

"Yes.  Isn't  he  splendid?  By  Jove,  I  think  he's 
marvellous.  Are  you  up  for  long?  " 

"  Yes,  I  hope  so.  If  I  can  stand  the  cold.  It  makes 
one  a  bit  liverish  after  Africa.  No.  No  coffee,  thanks. 
What's  going  on  here?  Who's  married?  I  hear 
Polly's  out." 

"  Yes.  What  else  is  there:  Eric's  engaged  to  Milly 
Plunket,  Dora's  sister.  You  know  Milly.  You  were 
sitting  next  to  her.  As  to  what's  going  on,  there's  a 
debate  or  something  about  limiting  the  powers  of  party 
government.  Are  you  a  Socialist  ?  " 


8  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"I?  I'm  nothing.  I  shift  to  whichever  party  has 
constructive  ideas.  Are  you  mixed  up  in  politics  ?  " 

"  No.  Lord  save  us,  no.  By  the  way,  did  you  ever 
finish  that  new  war  game  ?  You  told  me  about  it  once 
at  your  rooms.  And  then  your  Tactical  Handbook, 
with  all  those  topographical  parallels.  That  was  a  fine 
idea,  finding  English  parallels  for  famous  battlefields. 
Did  you  never  finish  them?  " 

"  No.  I  never  finished  them.  They  were  only 
amusements.  What  are  you  doing,  besides  getting 
massaged?  " 

"  I've  come  in  for  a  property  from  Uncle  Michael. 
I've  had  a  lot  of  work  over  the  succession.  You  must 
come  down  for  a  shoot.  I'd  like  to  see  something  of 
you." 

"Thanks.  I  should  like  that.  Evelyn's  looking 
well." 

"  My  sister?     Have  you  seen  her?  " 

"  Weren't  you  talking  to  her  just  before  we  came 
down  ?  " 

"  That?  No.  Evelyn's  in  Auxerre.  That  was  Miss 
Derrick." 

"  Really?  I  saw  a  dark  girl,  with  a  lot  of  colour.  I 
made  sure  it  was  your  sister.  Who  is  Miss  Derrick  ?  " 

"  She's  a  friend  of  Dora's,"  said  Maunsel,  flushing  a 
little.  Lionel  noticed  the  flush,  and  attributed  it  to 
love.  "  She  was  at  school  with  Dora.  She's  here  a 
good  deal." 

"  Rather  nice,  that  blue-green  kimono  thing  she  wore." 

"  Yes,"  said  Maunsel,  shortly. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Lionel.  "  Who  was  the  woman 
sitting  next  to  you?  I  seemed  to  know  her  face." 

"The  one  in  black,  with  the  rubies?  That's  Mary 
Drummond.  You  must  have  met  her  here.  She's  a 
sort  of  second  cousin.  She's  a  delightful  woman.  I 
must  introduce  you.  I  thought  you  knew  her. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  9 

Have  you  known  us  all  these  years,  and  never  met 
Mary?" 

"  No.  But  then  I've  never  been  home  for  long.  I 
must  have  heard  of  her.  Is  she  married  ?  " 

"  Yes.     But  she  doesn't  live  with  her  husband." 

"  I  said  to  myself  that  her  marriage  would  be  a 
tragedy.  Who  is  he?  " 

"Drummond?  He  used  to  be  a  novelist.  Do  you 
remember  a  book  called  The  Passional  ?  That  was  by 
him.  He  began  like  a  man  of  talent.  But  he  was 
always  rather  a  neurotic  specimen.  He  had  a  nervous 
breakdown,  and  after  that  he  took  to  drink." 

"  Couldn't  she  keep  him  straight  ?  What  was  she 
•doing,  to  let  him  get  that  way?  " 

"  She  couldn't  control  him.  Why  should  she?  He 
wasn't  on  her  plane.  Besides,  Drummond's  queer  in 
other  ways.  He  was  a  ghastly  blackguard  to  her. 
Beast!  He's  .  .  ."  Maunsel  dropped  his  eyes,  and 
muttered  something,  looking  down. 

"  It  may  have  been  congenital,"  said  Lionel. 

"  Then  why  did  he  marry?  Married  to  get  a  house- 
keeper. Of  course,  she  has  her  own  life.  She's  in- 
terested in  reforms,  and  she's  fond  of  music.  She  won't 
divorce  him,  for  of  course  that  would  .  .  .  You  see? 
No  woman  could.  Look  here.  Have  some  Benedictine, 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  No  thanks.  How  does  Drummond  live  ?  Does  he 
write?" 

"  There's  a  publisher  called  Leonard  Scroyle,  who 
runs  the  paper  called  The  Backwash.  Scroyle  keeps 
Drummond  in  a  garret  over  the  office.  It's  somewhere 
in  Co  vent  Garden.  He  gives  him  just  enough  indul- 
gence to  keep  him  quiet,  and  not  enough  to  stop  his 
writing.  He  writes  rather  well  when  he's  half  drunk; 
and  Scroyle's  too  clever  to  risk  a  scandal.  A  scandal 
would  stop  that  source  of  revenue.  His  one  fear  is  that 


io  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Mary  will  bring  divorce  proceedings.  It's  an  awful 
shame  that  a  woman  like  that  can't  get  a  divorce  with- 
out being  dragged  in  the  dirt.  She  would  be,  of  course, 
if  she  tried." 

"  The  rotten  kind  of  press  would  get  on  to  it,"  said 
Lionel.  "  What  right  have  journalists  to  make  these 
people's  futures  impossible.  Linen  as  dirty  as  Drum- 
mond  ought  not  to  be  washed  in  public.  It  ought  to 
be  sterilised  in  an  oven/' 

Old  Sir  Patrick  hobbled  over  to  them. 

"  Well,  Lionel,"  he  said,  "  how's  Africa?  Glad  to  be 
back?  I've  just  been  reading  you  in  the  Journal.  I 
see  you  had  a  good  time.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
now?" 

"  Do  you  remember  Naldrett,  sir?  He  was  in  Africa 
with  me.  I  brought  him  here  a  year  ago.  He  and  I 
were  thinking  of  starting  and  endowing  a  laboratory 
for  different  kinds  of  research.  And  we  are  planning  a 
little  scientific  paper  to  be  our  organ." 

"It  sounds  very  ...  eh?  What  kind  of  research 
will  you  be  doing  ?  You  personally  ?  " 

"  No  particular  research,  sir.  I  want  to  get  people 
interested  in  science.  I  mean,  interested  enough  to 
give  science  a  hand  in  the  conduct  of  life." 

"Oh,  Lord,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "We're  too  much 
governed  altogether  as  it  is.  How  many  more  forms 
do  you  want  us  to  fill  up  ?  Oh,  no,  my  boy.  Life  isn't 
to  be  conducted.  Life's  a  bone  for  the  top  dog. 
Besides,  do  you  suppose  we  doctors  '11  let  you  take  the 
bread  out  of  our  mouths?  Leave  the  conduct  of  life. 
Conduct  of  life!  I'm  surprised  at  you."  He  revolved 
the  taste  of  his  port,  shaking  his  head.  "  I  don't  like 
it,"  he  said,  "  when  a  young  man  talks  of  the  conduct 
of  life.  I  never  did,  when  I  was  a  young  man.  And  I 
don't  suppose,  if  you  had  it,  you'd  stop  a  single  infec- 
tious case." 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  n 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Lionel.  "  That  would  not  be  my  aim. 
My  aim  would  be  to  give  political  power  to  men  who 
know  how  science  can  improve  life." 

"That  is  politics,  then?  Not  science?  Or  revolu- 
tion. Eh  ?  Revolution  ?  We  shall  have  you  on  Tower 
Hill.  Well,  well,  well.  Doctors  are  a  lot  too  powerful 
as  it  is.  All  this  improving  the  world  and  perfecting 
life  is  bunkum.  Young  men  are  too  clever.  When  I 
was  a  young  man  I  used  to  ride  steeplechases.  I  say, 
Billy,  come  over  here  and  talk  to  Lionel  here.  He's 
fretting/'  He  smiled  at  Lionel  friendly,  and  passed  on 
to  another  guest,  hobbling  but  merry,  leaving  Lionel 
sad  that  an  intellect  so  fine  should  lack  interest  in  a  new 
thing.  "  He's  getting  old,"  Lionel  thought,  with  the 
mercilessness  of  youth.  "  He's  not  standing  for  intel- 
lect, now;  but  for  the  machine  by  which  it  works. 
Death  ought  to  take  intellect  before  that."  He  talked 
with  one  or  two  men  about  the  chances  of  war. 
The  intellectual  game  of  war  had  exercised  his  wits 
for  years.  He  was  deep  in  a  battle,  when  the  old  man, 
seeing  that  wine  and  narcotics  were  beginning  to  pall 
upon  his  guests,  proposed  that  they  should  go  upstairs. 

They  went  up. 

When  Lionel  entered  the  drawing-room,  Milly 
Planket  was  at  the  piano,  softly  patting  the  keys  with 
the  tips  of  her  pretty  fingers.  She  was  not  playing. 
She  was  looking  up  at  her  lover,  Eric  Hamlin,  who  was 
presently  to  turn  her  music  for  her.  Her  attitude  be- 
tokened both  surrender  and  domination.  It  said,  very 
plainly,  that  that  handsome  young  male  was  hers,  by 
right  of  capture;  and  that,  at  the  same  time,  she  was  a 
beauty  very  well  worth  a  man's  desire.  Lionel  had 
not  congratulated  Eric.  He  walked  up  to  him,  and 
wished  him  joy.  He  said  something  polite  to  Milly, 
who  smiled  very  sweetly,  showing  beautiful  teeth.  She 
rose  suddenly;  and  delicately  admonished  Eric. 


12  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  Eric,  your  tie  is  too  disgraceful.  Let  me."  A 
deft  pat  and  touch  corrected  the  tie.  Lionel  was  almost 
touching  her.  Her  vague,  indefinite  scent,  half  iris,  half 
sandalwood,  stirred  him  strangely.  Those  white  soft 
arms,  serpentine  in  their  languor  and  grace,  were  ser- 
pentine in  their  allurement.  He  had  only  to  stoop  to 
kiss  them.  He  looked  at  Milly  with  a  little  hot  pang. 
He  wished  that  a  woman  as  beautiful  were  stretching 
out  her  arms  to  him,  and  that  those  vague  scents,  so 
sweet,  and  so  disturbing,  were  parts  in  a  forgetting  of 
the  world  for  him. 

A  minute  later  she  was  singing  an  old  French  song, 
with  the  sort  of  voice  common  to  successful  women. 
Though  Lionel  was  fond  of  music  he  was  not  deeply 
sensitive  to  the  singing  voice,  her  songs  moved  him  less 
than  the  rhythm  of  her  hands,  so  delicately  shaped  and 
whitened.  He  felt  a  longing  to  seize  and  kiss  the  hands. 
Looking  round  the  room  at  the  assembled  women,  a 
sense  of  their  beauty,  a  sense  of  the  beauty  of  their  un- 
likeness  to  him,  took  hold  of  him.  He  longed  to  be 
everything  to  some  one  woman  there,  or  that  he  might 
be  something  to  all  the  women  there.  Even  the 
plainest  girl  there  was  something  sacred  and  desirable. 
He  was  out  of  this  world.  Coming  into  it  suddenly, 
after  all  the  months  abroad,  showed  him  the  gulf 
between  them.  He  felt  the  contrast.  In  a  moment  of 
tenderness,  which  was  half  self-pity,  he  wished  to  have 
the  entry  of  that  other  world,  and  to  know  these  women, 
as  they  knew  each  other.  A  refined,  tender,  heroic, 
beautiful  world,  made  up  of  sacredness  and  unselfish- 
ness, merry,  too,  and  very  sweet.  So  he  thought  of  it, 
while  the  music  lasted.  So  had  he  thought  of  it,  time 
after  time,  on  coming  back  from  the  wilds.  Looking 
at  them  from  where  he  stood,  under  a  great  standard 
lamp,  he  felt  it  bitter  that  he  was  not  like  the  other 
young  men  there.  He  was  only  on  sufferance,  for  a 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  13 

little  time.  Soon  he  would  be  going  back  to  the  wilds, 
to  measure  death  in  a  test-tube.  And  even  if  he  came 
back  again,  that  would  be  his  life  still,  that  would  be  his 
real  life,  to  which  he  would  soon  have  to  return,  a  life 
of  camp,  and  thirst,  and  recurrent  fever. 

Something  in  the  lighting  of  the  room,  in  the  softness 
of  the  music,  and  in  the  feeling  of  being  at  home  again 
after  hardships  endured,  gave  a  romantic  beauty  to  ail 
these  women.  He  felt  that  something  was  about  to 
happen.  Some  fantastic  revelation  was  in  the  air, 
moving  all  that  life  to  its  expression.  He  would  always 
remember  this  moment  and  these  women.  He  would 
fix  them  in  his  mind  forever,  the  fair  girl  with  the  blue 
eyes,  talking  to  Maunsel,  and  beautiful  Mrs.  Drummond 
talking  to  Sir  Patrick,  and  the  little  dark  woman,  whose 
hair  rose  up  polished  and  in  grain,  like  a  polished  metal 
firescreen.  Looking  from  one  fair  face  to  another,  in 
the  subdued  lamplight,  he  felt  that  all  were  beautiful 
inexpressibly,  and  sacred.  He  was  touched  by  the  im- 
possibility of  thinking  evil  of  any  woman  there.  He 
felt  the  impossibility  of  thinking  in  their  presence.  He 
longed  to  do.  He  wished  that  the  great  lamp  beside  him 
might  explode,  so  that  he  might  stifle  the  flames  for  them. 

As  the  song  ended,  a  woman  walked  across  the  room 
towards  the  piano.  She  was  the  woman  whom  he  had 
mistaken  for  Maunsel's  sister.  He  noticed  her  now. 
She  was  a  dark,  beautifully-made  woman,  dressed  in  a 
black  kimono,  broidered  with  blue  and  green  dragons. 
The  wide,  falling  sleeves  showed  her  arms  above  the 
elbow  whenever  she  raised  them.  They  were  very 
beautiful  arms.  The  hands  were  plump  and  well-cared 
for,  but  a  little  ineffectual.  So  much  he  noted  vaguely 
before  her  face  came  into  the  light  of  the  lamp.  After 
giving  Eric  a  smile  of  recognition  she  bent  to  ask  Milly 
for  some  favourite  song.  Lionel  saw  then  that  the 
woman  was  a  beauty,  in  a  brilliant,  unsubtle  way.  She 


14  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

had  bright  colour.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  with 
colour;  her  great  dark  eyes  were  vivid  with  life  and 
light.  Her  hair,  which  was  of  the  darkest  shade  of 
brown,  caught  the  light  everywhere.  In  the  depths  of 
it,  above  the  ears,  which,  being  rather  harshly  modelled, 
she  had  hidden,  she  had  thrust  a  red  rose.  There  was 
not  much  play  upon  the  face,  but  there  was  vividness. 
The  beauty  was  of  an  obvious  kind,  and  yet,  when,  at 
Milly's  question,  "  Have  you  met  Mr.  Heseltine, 
Rhoda  ?  "  she  looked  at  Lionel,  the  eyes  took  on  a  sort 
of  mystery.  It  was  not  that  she  was  enigmatic.  She 
was  merely  puzzled  by  the  unusual  in  Lionel's  face. 
Lionel  bowed,  being  introduced.  When  she  spoke  to 
him,  he  thought  that  her  voice  was  a  little  strained. 
There  was  a  note  of  excitement  in  the  voice  as  in  the 
colour. 

"  I've  heard  so  much  about  you,"  she  said,  "  from 
Sir  Patrick  and  Dora.  You  were  in  India,  weren't 
you?" 

"  Africa,"  he  said. 

"  But  you  were  in  India?  " 

"  Yes,  oh  yes." 

"  Didn't  you  meet  some  persons  called  Carnlow  in 
Bombay?" 

"  Carnlow?    Yes.    Rather.    A  dark  man?    A  soldier? 

"  Yes.  A  brown  man,  with  a  very  long  moustache. 
He's  my  brother-in-law.  Very  tall  man.  Very  long 
moustache.  His  men  call  him  Crucifix." 

"  I  don't  remember  his  wife  much.  Did  I  meet  her? 
I  ought  to  remember.  Your  sister  can't  be  like  you  at 
all." 

"  She's  much  taller.  She's  very  clever  and  very 
good-looking.  You  ought  to  remember  her.  I  know  you 
met  her.  She  danced  with  you.  She  sent  us  an  illus- 
trated paper  about  the  plague,  with  your  portrait  in  it. 
She  wrote,  '  I  danced  with  this  man,'  under  the  portrait. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  15 

I  recognised  you  directly  I  saw  you.  And  she  men- 
tioned you  in  some  of  her  letters.  She  was  always 
writing  about  the  epidemic.  You  were  very  keen  on 
destroying  flies  of  all  sorts  ?  " 

"  We  all  were/'  said  Lionel.  "  I  wish  I  could  re- 
member your  sister.  Is  she  still  out  there?  " 

"  Yes.     She's  still  out  there." 

"  We  got  shifted  about  so  during  the  plague,"  he  said. 
"  And  we  weren't  like  persons.  We  were  just  a  little, 
drilled  force  fighting.  The  fighting  was  everything, 
the  fighters  nothing.  Afterwards  it  was  funny  to  find 
ourselves  persons  again." 

"  That's  very  interesting,"  she  said.  "  But  isn't  that 
what  happens  in  every  form  of  struggle  ?  " 

"  The  issues  aren't  often  so  big,"  he  said,  musing. 
"  We  were  in  a  queer  mood.  Did  your  sister  ever  tell 
you  how  she  felt  ?  " 

"  More  or  less,"  Miss  Derrick  answered.  "  I  noticed 
one  thing.  She  didn't  seem  to  feel  the  horror.  I  felt 
the  horror.  She  told  me  some  most  awful  stories  as 
though  they  were  everyday  events,  like  going  to  pay  a 
call." 

"  Oh,  that's  the  East,"  he  said.  "  One  gets  snuffed 
out  very  easily  in  the  East.  Life  and  death  come  to  be 
just  the  different  sides  of  the  picture.  The  real  problem 
in  the  East  is  to  justify  your  philosophy." 

"  That  sounds  very  oriental— philosophy,"  she  said, 
not  quite  knowing  what  to  make  of  him. 

"  It  is  strange  in  the  West,"  he  said.  "  Here  there  is 
no  life.  There  is  only  a  passion  for  pretty  things.  How 
to  get  them,  or  how  to  behave  when  you've  got  them. 
I  think  you  know  Colin  Maunsel  ?  Where  is  this  estate 
that  he's  come  in  for?  " 

Miss  Derrick's  face  changed  a  little,  inscrutably. 
"  It's  in  Wiltshire,"  she  said.  "  So  you  know  him?  I 
was  chaffing  him  about  it,  just  before  dinner.  I  was 


16  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

telling  him,  he'd  be  able  to  settle  down  now  to  his  dis- 
gusting rum  and  chewing  tobacco." 

"  He  never  liked  to  be  treated  as  a  sailor,"  said  Lionel. 
Miss  Derrick  did  not  answer.  She  left  a  little  silence, 
and  changed  the  conversation.  Lionel  received  the 
impression  that  he  was  snubbed  for  having  discovered 
something  that  she  had  discovered  for  herself.  Miss 
Derrick  asked  him  if  he  would  be  long  in  London.  He 
said  that  he  thought  it  likely,  as  though  the  prospect 
were  unpleasant.  "  London  gives  a  kind  of  excite- 
ment," he  said,  as  though  apologising  for  a  bad  habit. 
•'  It's  like  dram-drinking." 

She  had  known  it  only  as  a  town  of  amusement,  full 
of  shops.  She  looked  at  him  with  perplexed  eyes. 
"  You  were  in  Africa,  you  say,"  she  said.  "  Did  you 
see  any  lions  ?  " 

"Yes.     Lots." 

"  Man-eaters?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Weren't  you  awfully  frightened?  " 

"  Yes.  Awfully."  They  laughed.  Presently  Miss 
Derrick  began  again. 

"  Were  you  in  a  very  lonely  part  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Very  lonely.  It's  very  strange  to  be  in  a 
room  like  this  so  soon  afterwards.  It's  like  coming  to 
another  world.  Were  you  ever  in  the  tropics,  Miss 
Derrick?" 

"  No,  never.  I've  often  longed  to  go.  They  must 
be  very  beautiful." 

"  I  never  like  to  think  of  Englishwomen  in  the 
tropics,"  said  Lionel.  "  Women  have  a  hard  enough 
time  without  going  to  the  tropics.  What  makes  you 
want  to  go  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  one  wants  to 
see  life  as  it  is,  without  all  this  pretence." 

"  Well,  but  isn't  that  a  wrong  wish,  Miss  Derrick," 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  17 

said  Lionel.  "  It's  the  pretence  which  makes  life  so 
fine.  Life  without  art  is  just  savagery;  and  savagery 
is  hideous;  like  any  other- natural  condition." 

Miss  Derrick  looked  at  Lionel  with  interest.  She 
leaned  a  fraction  of  an  inch  towards  him. 

"But  how  am  I  to  know  that?"  she  said.  "A 
woman  hears  that  theory  from  the  time  she  is  two.  As 
a  rule  the  theory  is  enough.  She  is  quite  content.  But 
suppose  something  makes  the  art  hideous,  like  any 
other  unnatural  condition  ?  " 

Old  Sir  Patrick  came  up. 

"  Rhoda,"  he  said,  "  I  want  this  young  man.  I 
want  to  introduce  him  to  Mrs.  Drummond,  over  here." 
Heseltine  took  his  leave;  Miss  Derrick  graciously  re- 
leased him.  In  another  moment,  he  was  walking  across 
to  Mrs.  Drummond,  trying  to  brace  himself  to  shine. 
He  had  often  wondered  whether  women  ever  forgave 
men  for  being  dull;  and  whether  they  could  tell  when 
their  beauty  had  upset  a  man,  and  whether  they  made 
all  allowances  for  the  results  of  such  upsettings.  He 
supposed  not.  Some  women  expected  that  their  beauty 
would  inspire  men  for  the  occasion.  For  the  thousandth 
time  he  was  conscious  that  the  excessive  redness  of  his 
eyes,  due  to  the  use  of  trypanroth  a  year  or  two  before, 
gave  him  an  odd  look.  He  wished  that  he  were  better 
looking.  What  would  a  woman  like  that  know  of 
trypanroth  ?  She  would  put  it  down  to  drink  and  evil 
living. 

The  introduction  was  made.  A  bull-voiced  young 
Hamlin  at  the  piano  prepared  to  bellow,  thumping  a 
command-note  like  something  bursting.  "  O  God," 
said  Lionel,  in  dismay,  recognising  the  preliminary, 
"  it's  '  Ahasuerus.'  " 

"  What  is?  "  said  Mrs.  Drummond,  smiling. 

"  I.  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Lionel,  flushing. 
"  It's  '  Ahasuerus.'  The  thing  he's  going  to  sing." 

B 


i8  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"Is  it?"  she  said.  "Well,  let's  run  away  while 
there's  time.  Let's  go  into  this  little  side-room." 

"  It's  rather  dark.     Won't  you  mind?  "  said  Lionel. 

"No.  Come  along.  Hsh!  He's  beginning."  They 
tiptoed  into  the  little  room.  Ahasuerus  without  began 
to  grant  "  another  day  of  slaughter  against  the  Jews." 
Lionel  collided  with  a  little  table.  A  flower  vase  fell 
upon  its  side.  He  grabbed  it  quickly.  There  followed 
the  cheerless  dribble-drip  of  water  falling  on  carpet. 

"  Did  it  break?  "  said  Mrs.  Drummond. 

"  No,  thanks,"  he  said.  "  The  water  didn't  go  on 
your  skirt,  I  hope?  " 

"  No.     It  wouldn't  matter  if  it  did." 

"  How  is  it  that  women  never  run  into  tables?  "  said 
Lionel.  "You  wouldn't  have  done  that,  would  you? 
Where  will  you  sit  ?  Will  you  sit  here  ?  " 

"  Thanks.  I'll  sit  here,"  said  Mrs.  Drummond. 
"  You  sit  there,  and  talk  to  me.  I've  been  looking  for- 
ward to  meeting  you.  Sir  Patrick  so  often  speaks  of 
you.  And  I  knew  your  mother,  years  ago.  She  was 
very  good  to  me.  You  were  a  little  tiny  boy,  then." 

"  That  was  in  Ireland,  then,  at  Coisnacraga?  " 

"  Yes."  Her  voice  made  him  feel  that  the  Irish 
memory  was  painful.  She  put  it  from  her  at  once. 
"  You've  just  come  back  from  Africa,  where  you've 
been  curing  sleeping-sickness  ?  " 

"  We  didn't  cure  very  much,  Mrs.  Drummond," 
Lionel  said.  "  Our  cure  wasn't  certain  by  any  means. 
The  real  cure  was  discovered  while  we  were  out  there. 
I'm  glad  they've  got  a  cure.  It's  a  horrid  thing  to 
watch." 

"  Yes.  It  must  be.  Dreadful.  They  rave  a  great 
deal,  don't  they?  It  is  so  awful  to  hear  a  person  who 
is  not  a  person.  Won't  you  tell  me  what  you  are  going 
to  do,  now?  Sir  Patrick  tells  me  you're  going  to  start 
a  paper.  I  would  like  so  much  to  talk  to  you  about 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  19 

that.     Would  you  mind?    Or  would  you  rather  not? 
Be  quite  frank,  won't  you?  " 

"  I  would  love  to  talk  about  it.  I  never  knew  a  man 
yet  who  didn't  like  to  talk  about  himself.  But  I'm 
afraid  it  would  bore  you." 

"  I  love  all  things  which  interest  others/'  said  Mrs. 
Drummond,  "  I  would  love  to  hear.  Sir  Patrick  said 
that  you  were  going  to  call  for  a  scientific  supervision 
of  the  national  life.  Is  that  your  scheme  ?  " 

"  Yes.    That  was  what  we  planned." 

"That  is  very  interesting.  Does  that  mean  some 
scheme  of  Eugenics  ?  " 

"  I  would  like  to  do  that.  But  Naldrett  (he's  the 
man  who  is  doing  it  with  me) — Naldrett  is  a  sentimentalist. 
He  baulks.  I  believe  in  Eugenics.  I  would  make  it  a 
penal  offence  to  marry  without  the  written  consent  of 
a  brain  specialist  and  a  gymnast.  Wouldn't  you,  Mrs. 
Drummond?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  smiling,  as  he  could  see  even  in 
the  half-darkness  of  the  room.  "  Marriage  is  so  much 
more  than  that.  Marriage  is  just  as  much  a  refuge  as 
an  escape.  People  marry  because  they  love  each  other 
and  want  to  help  one  another  to  be  the  finest  thing 
possible.  Often  they  marry  because  they  want  a 
permanent  object  for  their  affections.  A  system  of 
Eugenics  would  stunt  so  many  lives  by  denying 
them  the  possibilities  of  tenderness  that  in  the  long 
run  the  State  would  lose  quite  as  much  as  it  gained. 
States  thrive  by  enthusiasm  and  nervous  quickness,  by 
just  those  kinds  of  fine  madness  which  your  gymnast 
and  brain  specialist  would  unite  to  suppress." 

"  I  don't  agree,  Mrs.  Drummond.  States  thrive 
while  they  preserve  a  strong  and  stern  efficiency  for  life, 
while  they  look  things  in  the  eye,  straight,  without  any 
cant  about  what  might  be.  When  they  do  this  best, 
they  become  so  well  that  they  begin  to  boil  over.  That 


20  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

is  your  enthusiasm  and  nervous  quickness.  It  comes 
from  the  body's  being  prosperous  in  other  ways.  I 
believe  that  if  we  looked  at  things  straight,  and  killed 
off  our  rogues  and  inefficients,  instead  of  keeping  them 
healthy  so  that  they  may  have  every  opportunity  for 
breeding,  we  should  soon  begin  to  show  that  enthu- 
siasm. And  healthily,  instead  of  feverishly,  as  at 
present." 

"  But  at  what  a  cost/'  said  Mrs.  Drummond. 

"  That's  exactly  what  you  all  say.  '  At  what  a  cost/ 
National  efficiency  and  nervous  quickness  are  cheap  at 
any  cost.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  give  up  what  is 
least  use  and  most  trouble  to  you,  and  yet  you  cry  out 
at  once  '  At  what  a  cost/  If  some  one  would  gag 
Ahasuerus  there,  and  shove  him  under  the  piano  till  we 
had  done  talking,  would  you  pretend  to  be  grieved  for 
Ahasuerus?  No.  You'd  be  jolly  glad,  and  you'd  feel 
that  he  deserved  it." 

Mrs.  Drummond  smiled  at  the  vehemence  of  the  young 
bull  among  the  crockery. 

"  If  I  were  glad,"  she  said,  "  I  should  know  that  I 
had  failed  in  life.  We'll  go  into  this  question  by  and  by, 
when  Ahasuerus  stops  for  applause.  Will  you  tell  me 
what  it  is  that  you  intend  to  propose  ?  I  am  interested 
in  a  scheme  more  or  less  of  the  same  kind  as 
yours." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  your  scheme  first?  " 

"  No.     Yours  first." 

"  You  will  afterwards  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Now  yours." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Drummond,  I  think  this.  In  early 
times,  the  fighting  man  was  the  most  necessary  kind  of 
man.  He  took  the  power,  and  made  it  hot  for  the 
people  who  wouldn't  or  couldn't  fight.  Then  there 
came  the  spiritual  man,  who  took  the  power  and  made 
it  hot  for  all  who  wouldn't  or  couldn't  believe.  Now 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  21 

there  comes  the  scientific  man  who  wants  to  get  the 
power  to  make  it  hot  for  those  who  won't  or  can't 
conform  to  the  plain  dictates  of  science.  I  suppose  at 
the  present  day  there  isn't  a  nation  under  the  sun 
which  lives  less  wisely  than  ourselves.  I  mean  with 
less  regard  for  the  ways  of  life  proved  to  be  sane.  I 
want  to  teach  people  that  life's  all  right,  or  would  be,  if 
it  were  made  less  of  a  losing  battle.  As  it  is,  it  is  a 
losing  battle,  only  more  useless  and  more  tragical.  The 
wisest  and  best  in  the  nation  are  at  the  mercy  of  every 
dirty  man  and  selfish  man  and  stupid  man.  I  want  to 
establish  a  scientific  authority  strong  enough  to  insist 
that  what  science  has  discovered  to  perfect  life  shall  be 
f  applied  to  life.  Man  ought  to  live  in  cleanliness  and 
comfort  for  the  public  good,  if  not  for  his  own.  Those 
who  make  this  not  possible  have  no  right  to  live  in  a 
scientific  age.  I  know  you'll  say  that  I  am  threatening 
personal  liberties.  I  don't  see  that  there  is  any  liberty 
under  a  competitive  industrialism.  Science  is  the  only 
idea  that  offers  a  new  law  and  a  new  priesthood.  Grow- 
ing man  is  always  striving  for  those." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Drummond.  "  So  far  I  agree. 
But  I  feel  that  you  aren't  quite  just  to  this  present  age. 
I  don't  think  there  has  ever  been  such  an  age  since  the 
beginning  of  the  world.  The  world  is  just  one  big 
passion  for  the  reform  of  abuses.  I  daresay  the  English 
have  uncomfortable  ways.  All  nations  have.  But 
when  one  comes  to  look  at  them  closely  one  sees  that 
they're  generally  based  on  a  kind  of  idealism,  which  is 
quite  fine,  however  misguided  the  workings  of  it  may 
be.  How  are  you  going  to  get  rid  of  your  dirty  men 
and  all  the  rest  of  it?  By  agitation?  By  changing 
public  opinion  ?  " 

"  There  are  many  ways  of  changing  the  world,"  he 
said.  "  And  they  all  seem  so  innocent  till  it's  too  late 
to  stop  them.  I  agreed  to  start  this  scheme  of  ours, 


22  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

thinking  that  it  would  be  an  amusement  for  a  few 
friends.  Now  that  I  look  at  it  closely,  I  see  that  it  is  a 
tremendous  revolutionary  idea.  I  see  possibilities  in  it 
that  I  did  not  see.  Political  possibilities.  Seeing  them, 
I  would  like  to  try  to  realise  them.  And  at  once  the 
whole  thing  changes." 

"  I  know/'  she  said.  "  When  Nature  wants  a  thing 
done  she  creates  an  illusion  about  it." 

"  She  does,"  he  said.  "  And  the  world  progresses 
because  of  its  illusions." 

"  You  won't  realise  your  vision,"  she  said. 

"  No.  No  one  worth  anything  does  that.  '  Success 
is  the  brand  on  the  brow  for  aiming  low.'  And  then 
when  man  attempts  a  revolution  he  often  finds  that 
Nature  only  wants  the  attempt.  It's  one  of  her  ways 
of  killing  oft  the  imperfect." 

"  You  are  very  reasonable,  for  a  prophet,"  she  said. 
He  laughed. 

"  Life  likes  a  slow  growth,"  he  said.  "  Nature's  not 
generous.  She  has  a  way  of  stabbing  in  the  back  when 
you  think  you've  caught  her.  I  dread  a  '  conquest  of 
Nature.'  It  is  so  often  like  war.  Did  you  ever  hear  the 
phrase  '  he  who  makes  a  turning  movement  is  himself 
turned  ?  '  Will  you  tell  me  of  your  reform  ?  " 

"  My  reform,"  she  said,  "  is  rather  like  yours  in  a  way. 
I  am  in  a  movement  for  strengthening  Public  Health 
authorities.  I  see  that  that  isn't  radical  enough  for 
you.  When  Sir  Patrick  spoke,  I  was  hoping  that  we 
might  be  able  to  work  together,  at  least  in  some  ways. 
I  find  it  so  difficult  to  get  men  with  medical  knowledge 
to  help  in  the  movement.  But  I  would  like  to  talk  to 
you  about  our  schemes.  I  would  like,  too,  to  hear  of 
Africa.  Are  you  ever  free,  I  wonder?  Perhaps  you 
would  come  to  lunch  with  me  one  day  this  week> 
Would  you?" 

"  I  should  be  delighted,"  Lionel  said. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  23 

"  And  bring  your  friends.  Perhaps  they  would  come, 
too?" 

"  They're  over  in  Ireland  still,"  he  answered.  "  Or 
I'm  sure  they  would  be  delighted." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  will  bring  them  some  other 
time.  I  live  in  Maundy  Mansions.  Will  you  lend  me 
a  pencil  ?  I'll  write  you  directions  how  to  get  there." 

He  unhooked  a  little  pencil  case  from  his  watch  chain. 
Bending  forward  towards  the  light  she  wrote  on  a  card. 
Looking  at  her,  as  she  wrote,  he  felt  again  that  sudden 
impulse  which  had  moved  him  a  little  while  before,  near 
Milly  Plunket.  He  longed  to  take  her  hands  in  his. 
He  longed  to  have  her  great  eyes  looking  into  his,  and 
to  have  that  superb  hair  loose  about  him.  These 
women  made  him  conscious  of  the  want  in  his  life. 

Possibly  Mrs.  Drummond  was  conscious  of  the 
tumult  beginning  in  the  young  man.  She  complained 
that  she  could  not  see  what  she  was  writing.  She  asked 
him  to  turn  on  the  light.  She  finished  the  directions. 

"  That  is  everything,"  she  said,  giving  him  the  card. 
"  So  we  shall  have  a  talk  on  Friday."  He  noticed  an 
old  French  ring  on  her  left  hand.  Old  Sir  Patrick 
entered. 

"  I'm  going  to  take  this  young  man  away,"  he  said. 
"  Miss  Plunket  wants  to  know  about  a  dance  or  some- 
thing, and  he  must  come  at  once,  for  she's  got  to  go." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Mrs;  Drummond.  He  offered  his 
hand.  She  took  it.  Her  smile  was  very  winning.  He 
must  have  looked  at  her  rather  hard  for  she  dropped 
her  eyes.  Afterwards  he  was  afraid  that  he  had  stared. 
He  had  been  struck  by  the  sight  of  her  head  in  full  relief 
against  the  dark  green  of  the  curtains.  He  had  wanted 
to  fix  it  in  his  mind. 

Miss  Dora  Plunket  sat  in  the  hall,  talking  to  Miss 
Derrick.  Lionel  advanced  upon  her. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Heseltine,"  she  said.     "  We  want  you  to 


24  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

come  to  the  Club  at  twelve  to-morrow,  instead  of  eleven. 
Milly  finds  she's  promised  Rhoda  to  go  to  Harrod's." 

"  Certainly.  At  twelve,"  he  said.  The  ladies  rose. 
Miss  Derrick  stooped  for  her  cloak. 

"  Let  me  do  that,"  said  Lionel.  He  laid  the  cloak  on 
her  shoulders.  One  of  her  hands,  a  rather  hot  and 
feverish  hand,  just  touched  his  as  she  took  the  clasp. 
She  smiled  as  she  thanked  him.  Old  Sir  Patrick  and 
Eric  saw  them  to  their  carriage. 

Lionel  thought  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  go.  He 
took  his  leave  of  the  Hamlins  and  found  his  coat. 
Billy  Hamlin,  a  Fusilier,  waited  on  him  to  the  door. 

"  What  are  you  doing  in  town,  Billy?  "  Lionel  asked, 
as  he  put  on  his  coat.  "  Why  aren't  you  killing  things  ?  " 

"  I've  been  with  Newtown-Stewart  at  Hampage  for 
the  last  week,"  said  the  soldier.  "  There's  been  an 
election.  I've  come  up  for  a  rest.  Political  work  takes 
it  out  of  you." 

"  You  weren't  canvassing?  " 

"  No.  I  was  moterin'  the  voters  to  the  poll,  and 
organism'  processions.  Do  you  know  a  Miss  Maclaine  ? 
Comes  from  Ireland.  An  awfully  pretty  girl?  " 

"Yes.     Was  she  there?" 

"  Yes.  I  don't  think  I'd  have  stuck  it  if  she'd  not 
been  there.  I  had  a  feeling  you  knew  her.  Isn't  she 
an  awfully  good  sort  ?  " 

"  Yes.     How  did  the  election  go  ?  " 

"  Oh,  our  man  won,  young  Cleland.  You  may  have 
met  him.  A  majority  of  two  thousand.  You  see, 
they've  got  no  motors,  the  Radicals.  We  got  a  lot  of 
people  by  giving  them  rides  in  motors.  And  then  we 
had  processions.  That's  what  people  really  like,  you 
know.  They  don't  understand  all  this  about  Tariffs. 
But  they  do  like  a  procession  and  a  ride  in  a  motor-car." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lionel.  "  A  good  circus  is  half  the 
battle."  He  left  the  soldier  on  the  doorstep,  for  the 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  25 

cold  of  the  November  night  made  him  shudder.  He 
walked  briskly  across  Oxford  Street,  down  Bond  Street, 
and  through  Brook  Street  to  Hanover  Square.  He  was 
glad  to  feel  pavement  under  him.  A  cold  blast  made 
him  hug  himself  under  his  wraps.  It  was  good  to  be 
back  again  in  spite  of  the  cold.  His  mind  was  full  of 
the  exaltation  of  being  back  again.  The  glare  of 
Regent  Street,  the  lights,  the  faces,  the  coloured  lamps, 
were  welcome  to  him.  He  thought  of  his  evening  at 
the  Hamlins  with  a  tenderness  that  was  half  exaltation. 
Mrs.  Drummond's  beauty,  Miss  Derrick's  vividness, 
and  Miss  Plunket's  grace  arose  in  his  mind  one  after  the 
other,  winning,  brilliant  and  suave.  In  his  dangerous, 
sentimental  mood  he  paid  a  tribute  of  worship  to  all 
three,  wondering  if  there  would  ever  be  a  woman  in  his 
life,  some  one  to  love,  one  to  change  life  for  him.  He 
wanted  that  caress  given  so  idly  by  Miss  Plunket  to  her 
lover.  He  wanted  a  touch  that  would  set  him  on  fire. 

Women  passed  him.  There  were  many  women. 
Some  of  them  spoke  to  him.  One  of  them  was  a  child 
of  eighteen,  hard-eyed  already.  Many  women  passed 
him,  a  multitude  of  women,  a  monstrous  regiment. 
Stopping  on  the  broad  sidewalk  in  Leicester  Square  he 
counted  fifty-seven  in  five  minutes.  The  result  of 
making  women  sheep/1  he  said.  "  One  of  the  things 
that  men  say  '  must  always  be  here/  What  a  mass  of 
evil  waits  for  an  act  of  will." 

As  he  wandered  on,  the  vastness  of  London,  its  in- 
credible grossness  of  life,  began  to  stimulate  him.  Here 
was  all  this  vast  disease  spread  out  for  a  surgical  Balzac. 
Here  was  all  this  great  floppy  cancer  ready  for  his  probe, 
his  lance,  his  surgical  saw.  There  was  something  grand 
about  it.  Looking  out  from  his  upper  window  in 
Pump  Court,  he  smoked  some  strong  French  cigarettes, 
thinking  of  it  all.  He  was  glad  to  be  back.  Something 
of  Billy  Hamlin's  talk  remained  with  him.  "  Yes,"  he 


26  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

said  to  himself.  "  Billy's  right.  To  get  a  thing  done 
one  must  drop  all  this  cant  of  principle."  He  foresaw 
a  speedy  breaking  of  the  triumvirate. 

Before  raking  out  the  fire,  he  looked  round  the  room 
with  a  bachelor's  desolating  sense  of  loneliness.  "  Good 
Lord,"  he  thought.  "  This  isn't  a  life."  He  looked  at 
the  empty  wicker  chair  at  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace. 
What  would  life  be  like,  he  wondered,  if  brilliant  Rhoda 
Derrick  were  sitting  there,  in  her  kimono,  with  a  rose 
in  her  hair.  He  imagined  her  sitting  there,  looking  at 
him,  summing  him  up.  He  imagined  her  putting  her 
hands  behind  her  head.  The  broad  sleeves  of  the 
kimono  fell  back,  showing  her  arms.  She  was  a  beauti- 
ful creature.  Beauty  and  tenderness  and  grace  were 
the  things  wanting  to  him.  Wanting  these,  he  wanted 
everything.  He  was  lonely  here.  His  life  was  empty. 
He  wanted  "  an  asylum  for  his  affections."  The  coals 
dropped.  Their  crimson  dulled  to  grey.  He  began  to 
feel  chilly.  He  began  to  remember  stories  of  men  who 
lived  alone  in  chambers  till  they  had  gone  mad.  Lots 
of  them  had  gone  mad;  mad,  not  as  hatters,  but  as 
wig-makers,  in  all  sorts  of  obsolete  ways  of  madness. 
Old  legal  faces  grinned  at  him.  They  had  gone  mad 
(perhaps  in  that  very  room),  from  port  and  law  and 
loneliness.  They  had  hanged  themselves  perhaps  from 
those  very  doors.  That  was  the  one  jest  of  their  lives, 
to  hang  themselves  from  doors,  so  that  their  clerks 
might  be  shocked  in  the  morning.  Snuffy  old  men, 
with  parchment  faces,  had  chuckled  there,  standing  on 
chairs,  fixing  the  rope.  A  bachelor  could  choose 
between  that  and  the  street.  Well.  He  had  made  his 
choice,  years  before.  Feeling  that  he  was  in  for  a  bout 
of  fever,  he  took  a  large  dose  of  quinine  and  went  to  bed.. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  rooms  of  the  Tuesday  Club  were  at  the  top  of 
Gainsborough  Mansions,  a  vast  red  Chelsea  barrack  of 
expensive  flats.  They  had  once  been  tenanted  by 
Thomas  de  Vries,  the  artist,  whose  pamphlet,  "  Official 
Art,  an  Exposure,"  had  made  the  Academy  the  subject 
of  a  question  in  the  House.  When  De  Vries  died,  a  few 
years  before  the  opening  of  this  story,  his  clique,  too  old, 
now,  mostly,  to  abandon  settled  habits,  decided  to  con- 
tinue his  famous  Tuesday  evenings.  A  Mrs.  Burgess,  a 
rich  lady  among  them,  who  had  bought  several  of  his 
pictures,  took  the  flat  for  a  long  term.  She  was  a  grace- 
ful, tactful  woman  with  theories  of  art.  Luckily  for 
herself  they  had  won  her  the  friendship  of  a  practitioner. 
De  Vries  had  had  a  deep  regard  for  her.  For  a  year  or 
two  he  had  even  been  swayed  by  her,  nor  had  she 
realised  that  it  was  her  beauty  and  grave  delightful 
charm,  not  her  theories,  which  influenced  him.  Since 
his  death,  the  clique  had  been  much  enlarged.  It  was 
now  a  Club  of  people,  mostly  young,  rather  rich,  rather 
idle  people,  interested  in  Art,  or,  as  sometimes  happened, 
merely  amused  by  it  for  the  moment. 

The  great  studio,  almost  big  enough  for  a  tennis  court, 
was  now  the  reception  room.  The  walls  were  hung 
with  picked  De  Vries'  drawings,  most  of  them  studies 
in  red  chalk,  from  the  figure.  At  one  end  of  the  room 
were  the  three  jewels  of  the  Burgess  collection,  De 
Vries'  masterpiece,  the  "  Octavia "  (Mrs.  Burgess  on 
a  green  sofa),  the  "  Twilight  "  (an  interior,  Mrs.  Burgess 
in  blue-grey),  and  the  "  Crepuscule,"  a  music  room, 
taper-light,  Mrs.  Burgess  in  grey-blue.  Fronting  these, 
at  the  room's  other  end,  was  a  gallery,  which  was  used 

27 


28  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

on  Club  nights  by  the  singers  and  musicians.  At  other 
times  it  was  a  dim,  silent  bower,  discreet  with  tapestry, 
where  one  could  talk,  in  low  voice,  on  the  influence  of 
art  on  the  soul,  and  other  matters.  In  a  smaller  room, 
opening  from  the  studio,  the  contributions  of  the  Club 
members  were  preserved.  Every  member  of  the  Club 
had  to  contribute  a  work  of  art  to  this  collection  before 
he  or  she  could  be  admitted  to  Club  rights.  Here  they 
were  displayed.  The  walls  were  hung  with  sketches 
and  drawings,  rough  pencilled  notes,  elaborate  studies, 
designs  for  pictures,  for  tapestry,  for  stained  glass.  On 
shelves  and  pediments  were  clay  and  wax  models,  little 
bronzes,  little  plaster  casts  tinted  to  resemble  bronzes. 
In  a  cabinet  were  a  few  jewels  and  a  little  embroidery. 
On  a  bookshelf  were  various  small  books  of  verse,  prose 
colour  -  effects,  eccentric  criticism.  There  were  also 
some  bound  collections  of  the  same,  interspersed  with 
the  scores  of  music,  and  reproductions  from  modern 
etchings.  The  backs  of  these  collections  were  labelled 
"The  Scrap  Book  of  the  Tuesday  Club."  The  fly 
leaves  bore  the  legend  "  Imprinted  at  the  Sign  of  the 
Master,  1003,  The  Dene,  Chiselhurst." 

In  this  room,  among  the  pretentious  litter  produced 
by  the  incompetent  and  the  idle,  Lionel  waited  for  Miss 
Plunket  and  her  friend.  While  he  waited,  he  turned 
over  the  papers  on  the  table.  He  had  already  seen  the 
daily  and  weekly  papers.  Besides  these  there  was 
nothing  worth  perusal  save  some  half  dozen  monthly 
Art  magazines,  full  of  elaborate  reproductions.  One  of 
these  contained  an  article  on  the  portraits  in  the  Museo 
Berraco  at  Naples.  He  read  this  article  with  interest. 
He  noted  the  points  of  the  heads,  wondering  if  any  man 
had  compared  them  with  existing  local  types.  He 
wished  that  he  had  the  busts  beside  him,  to  turn  about 
and  measure.  Reproductions  gave  one  no  sense  of  what 
the  head  meant.  They  were  deceitful;  they  could  be 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  29 

made  to  deceive.  He  liked  to  have  a  bust  so  pivoted 
that  he  might  turn  it  to  all  angles,  catching  stray, 
unsuspected  strength  or  weakness,  in  the  flex  of  the 
mouth,  the  nose's  poise,  and  the  chin's  contradiction. 
He  wondered  what  the  Caesar  head  would  reveal  if  one 
could  come  to  it  with  a  knowledge  of  skulls,  and  an 
entire  ignorance  of  the  sycophancy  of  historians. 

Coming  to  the  end  of  the  heads  he  sat  up  in  his  chair, 
much  annoyed  at  the  delay  of  the  ladies.  Busy  people 
like  himself  were  sometimes  forced  to  be  unpunctual; 
but  the  first  duty  of  flowers  was  to  be  in  position  for 
the  bee.  He  picked  up  another  Art  paper.  This  one 
was  more  amusing  than  the  other.  It  had  an  article 
on  some  Roman  finds  at  Cor  dub  a.  One  of  the  finds 
was  reproduced  in  illustration  of  the  text.  It  was  a 
surgeon's  speculum,  evidently  not  much  worse  than 
some  recently  in  use  among  us.  He  made  a  note  of  the 
Archaeological  Society  where  the  relic  might  be  seen. 
He  skimmed  the  pages  to  the  end.  At  the  end,  there 
were  half  a  dozen  pages  of  correspondence  about  a 
well-known  work  of  art.  The  bitterness  of  some  of  the 
correspondence  interested  him.  It  appeared  that  the 
picture  had  been  sold  to  the  nation  for  twice  its  value. 
The  methods  used  to  obtain  the  price  were  described  at 
length,  with  comment.  If  the  price  had  not  been  paid, 
"  the  picture  would  have  been  lost  to  the  nation." 
That  suggestion  alone  had  raised  the  money.  It  struck 
Lionel  suddenly  that  living  in  cities  had  produced  in 
man  an  amazing  capacity  for  hysteria.  Suppose  a 
really  clever  man  were  to  direct  that  force  for  fine  ends  ? 

The  door  opened.  Miss  Dora  Plunket  rushed  in  with 
Rhoda. 

"  You  poor  man/'  she  cried.  "  Have  you  been  wait- 
ing long?  You  know  we  were  kept.  I  am  so  awfully 
sorry.  Milly  can't  come.  How  you  must  have  blessed 
us.  What  is  the  time?  Is  it  one?  " 


30  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  A  quarter  to,"  said  Lionel.  "  But  I'm  generally 
fast." 

"  Poor  Mr.  Heseltine  hasn't  even  been  allowed  to 
smoke,"  said  Rhoda. 

"  What  wretches  we  are,"  said  Miss  Plunket.  "  He 
might  have  died.  We  are  beasts,  Rhoda.  It  was  all 
your  fault.  Well,  let  us  think,  now.  I've  got  to  lunch 
early  as  I'm  going  to  a  matinee.  Perhaps,  Mr.  Hesel- 
tine, you  would  lunch  with  us?  " 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Lionel.  "  But  I'm  lunching 
with  Billy  Hamlin." 

"  Oh,  don't  let's  trouble  about  lunch,"  said  Rhoda. 
"  The  maids  here  know  us.  Let's  borrow  a  spirit  lamp 
and  make  coffee.  You  make  such  delightful  coffee. 
And  I'll  go  out  and  get  some  cakes." 

"  Couldn't  I  go?  "  Lionel  asked. 

"  No.  Certainly  not.  Besides,  men  buy  such  ex- 
pensive cakes."  Dora  rang  for  the  spirit  lamp  and 
coffee  set.  She  remembered  suddenly  that  Lionel 
would  be  in  the  way  while  she  made  the  coffee.  "  Stupid 
of  me,"  she  said.  "  The  Club's  coffee's  awful.  Would 
you  really  mind,  Mr.  Heseltine,  going  to  the  Stores  in 
Anson  Street.  It's  just  round  the  corner.  And  getting 
a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  the  best  fresh-ground  coffee, 
while  Rhoda  gets  the  cakes  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Dora,"  said  Rhoda.  "  We  can't  ask  Mr. 
Heseltine.  It's  a  shame." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Lionel.  "  Come  along,  Miss 
Derrick."  They  went  out  together. 

In  the  hall  of  the  flat  Lionel  noticed  Miss  Derrick's 
dress.  She  wore  a  dark  green  coat  and  skirt.  Beneath 
the  coat  she  wore  a  silk  blouse,  of  white  finely  striped 
with  a  very  beautiful  blue.  Her  hat  was  adorned  with 
a  motor  veil  of  the  same  shade  of  blue.  Over  her 
shoulders  she  wore  a  stole  of  grey  squirrel  fur.  Her 
gloves,  of  pale  fawn,  were  tucked  into  an  immense  muff 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  31 

of  grey  squirrel  fur.  She  wore  two  small  gold  bracelets 
on  her  right  wrist.  She  was  faintly  scented  with  a 
vague  delicate  perfume  like  the  ghost  of  ambergris. 
Lionel's  friend  Naldrett  had  once  defined  the  scent  as 
"  spirits  of  women." 

"  Are  you  used  to  these  Bohemian  ways,  Mr.  Hesel- 
tine  ?  "  she  asked,  shyly  smiling  at  him. 

"  I'm  not  used  to  quite  this  kind  of  Bohemia,"  he 
answered  truthfully,  as  he  rang  for  the  lift.  "  Do  you 
use  this  Club  much,  Miss  Derrick  ?  " 

"  Yes/'  she  said,  stepping  into  the  lift,  "  a  good  deal. 
She  took  advantage  of  the  mirrors  lining  the  cage  to 
settle  her  veil.  It  was  a  fine  veil  dotted  with  a  few 
spots  of  a  darker  blue  than  the  substance.  She  made  a 
little  moue  as  she  slipped  the  gauze  over  her  chin 
When  it  was  in  place  she  again  glanced  shyly  at  Lionel. 
One  of  the  spots  was  settled  at  the  angle  of  the  mouth, 
with  the  effect  of  an  eighteenth-century  patch.  The 
veil  gave  to  her  face  that  attractive  fascination  which 
veils  give  even  to  the  hard-featured  woman.  They 
stepped  into  the  hall.  A  commissionaire  opened  the 
door  for  them.  On  the  doorstep  Lionel  spoke  again. 
He  had  not  walked  thus  with  a  pretty  woman  for  more 
than  a  year.  Something  in  Miss  Derrick  moved  him. 
It  was  the  beauty  of  her  physical  presence  there,  all 
that  unlikeness  to  himself,  dressed  so  vividly  with  so 
much  dainty  thought.  He  was  moved  by  the  idea  of  a 
delicate  fastidiousness  of  mind  trusting  itself  to  some- 
thing grosser  and  coarser.  He  had  been  touched, 
really,  to  the  quick,  by  the  movement  of  the  neat, 
gloved  hand  daintily  settling  the  veil  at  chin  and 
throat.  He  had  felt  rebuked,  and,  as  it  were,  ranked 
upon  a  lowel  level,  by  that  refinement  of  touch.  He 
thought  with  a  kind  of  awe  of  the  state  of  intimacy  in 
which  a  man  might  commune  with  these  finer  natures. 
He  was  genuinely  impressed  by  something  which  would 


32  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

not  have  moved  one  who  had  lived  out  of  exile,  within 
reach  of  normal  companionship.  Being  impressed,  he 
was  anxious  to  let  her  see  that  her  appearance  was 
delightful  to  him. 

"  Miss  Derrick/'  he  said,  "  I  have  been  trying  to 
think  what  flower  is  just  the  colour  of  your  veil?  Is  it 
the  blue  soap  wort?  " 

"  Saponaria  is  pink  or  purplish." 

"  Yes.  But  the  tone,  or  softness,  is  the  same.  And 
it's  the  tone  which  makes  the  colour  so  wonderful. 
What  is  the  flower?  There  is  some  flower/' 

"  Yes.  There  is  a  flower.  A  wild  flower.  The 
'  Devil's  bit '  scabious.  Do  you  know  that  flower  ?  A 
little  wild  scabious,  which  grows  on  rough  hills?  I 
always  associate  it  with  the  sea.  I  used  to  find  it  near 
the  sea.  Are  you  fond  of  colour?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lionel.  "  I'm  fond  of  all  colours.  But 
a  really  subtle  colour,  a  colour  like  your  veil,  gives  one 
almost  the  effect  of  a  discovery.  It  makes  your  hat 
like  a  great  big  flower.  I  should  think  people  want  to 
pick  you.  Where  do  we  get  our  cakes  ?  " 

"  I  shall  get  the  cakes,  Mr.  Heseltine.  You  are  to  get 
the  coffee.  Remember,  fresh-ground.  You'll  find  the 
tea  and  coffee  department  on  the  right,  near  the  door  of 
the  Stores  there.  The  place  for  cakes  is  just  round  the 
corner.  Will  you  wait  for  me  here?  I  won't  keep  you 
long." 

"  I  will,"  he  said.  She  smiled  as  she  left  him.  He 
turned  to  his  Stores.  As  he  entered,  she  came  to  his 
side  again.  "  Mr.  Heseltine,"  she  said,  speaking  shyly, 
"  I've  done  such  a  stupid  thing.  I  find  I've  left  my 
purse  upstairs." 

"  You  must  let  me  lend  you  some/'  he  said.  She 
blushed  a  little  as  she  took  it.  It  struck  him  that  her 
character  was  a  mixture  of  feminine  timidities  with  the 
hardness  of  one  conscious  of  them.  He  wondered,  as 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  33 

they  ground  the  coffee  for  him,  whether  a  woman's  life 
were  not  really  intolerable.  To  be  so  sensitive,  to  be 
always  on  guard,  amid  the  unfeeling  and  the  aggressive, 
to  maintain  a  constant  armed  truce,  with  insufficient 
force;  to  be  half  a  secret,  and  half  a  martyr.  He  was 
thankful  that  he  had  been  born  male.  One  cause  of 
his  thankfulness  was,  perhaps,  the  satisfaction  of  being 
on  terms  of  mutual  attraction  with  a  being  so  beautiful 
and  so  dainty.  His  coffee  cost  him  sevenpence. 

Miss  Derrick  crossed  the  street  to  him,  carrying  a  neat 
packet. 

"  Will  you  let  me  carry  that?  "  he  asked. 

"  No/'  she  said,  "  I'll  carry  this,  thank  you.  I 
suppose  shopping  is  a  great  joy  to  you  after  being  away 
so  long?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  simply.  "  One  slips  back  into 
shopping  quite  unconsciously.  But  I  don't  think  you 
can  realise  how  strange  it  seems  to  be  talking  to  a  woman 
after  nearly  a  year  with  men.  And  to  see  women  every 
day.  You  look  so  awfully  civilised,  Miss  Derrick.  One 
never  realises  the  difference  till  one  gets  back.  You 
know,  you  frighten  me.  I  think  it's  your  veil.  It 
makes  me  feel  that  I've  been  living  like  a  wild  beast." 

She  looked  at  him,  a  little  touched  by  his  directness. 
"  You  don't  give  one  that  impression,"  she  said,  smiling 
at  him,  this  time  with  rather  greater  frankness.  "  But 
I  know  that  living  in  exile  like  that  must  be  wretched 
for  men.  I  know  my  brother-in-law  says  that  before 
he  married  it  often  almost  drove  him  mad." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lionel.  "  But  the  curse  of  exile  is  that 
you  can't  go  mad.  One  has  the  work  to  attend  to. 
One  goes  mad  living  alone  in  rooms  in  a  city.  Were 
you  ever  alone  in  a  city,  Miss  Derrick?  " 

"  I'm  trying  to  think,"  she  answered.  "  I've  been 
alone  in  a  country  house  with  only  servants." 

"  Did  that  get  on  your  nerves?  " 

c 


34  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  Let  me  see.  What  did  I  do  ?  I  bathed  in  the  sea 
and  went  for  long  walks  with  the  dog.  And  at  nights. 
Yes,  at  nights  I  used  to  get  a  little  creepy.  I  used  to 
read  Maupassant's  bogey  stories  in  bed  till  I  was  afraid 
to  blow  out  the  candle."  They  stopped  on  the  chilly 
landing  outside  the  door  of  the  flat. 

"Are  you  an  artist,  Miss  Derrick?"  Lionel  asked. 
"  What  did  you  do  to  get  elected  here?  " 

"  I  used  to  go  in  for  jewellery  and  book-binding/'  she 
said.  "  I  used  to  do  enamel.  Did  you  ever  have  time 
for  things  of  that  sort?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lionel,  "  I  never  had  any  leaning  that 
way.  Is  any  work  of  yours  in  the  museum  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Derrick.  "  I'm  sorry  to  say  there 
is." 

"  Will  you  show  it  to  me?  " 

"  No.  It  really  is  not  fit  to  show.  Perhaps  some 
day  I'll  show  you  some  which  I've  done  since  then." 
A  maid  opened  the  door  to  them. 

"  Dora  will  be  in  the  gallery,"  said  Rhoda  as  she 
passed  into  a  sitting-room.  "  Will  you  come  up  these 
little  stairs  here,  Mr.  Heseltine  ?  "  The  room  was  hung 
about  with  a  Holy  Grail  tapestry,  from  which  the  cross 
on  a  knight's  shield  glowed  crimson.  Miss  Derrick 
paused  at  the  corner  of  the  room  with  her  hand  raised, 
holding  back  the  cloth.  Behind  the  embroidered 
knights  and  angels  a  little  iron  spiral  stair  showed.  The 
poise  of  her  head  against  the  dimness  of  the  background 
was  very  queenly.  She  put  back  her  veil  from  her 
mouth.  The  brightness  of  her  eyes  and  the  pure  vivid 
colour  of  her  complexion,  gave  her  for  the  moment  an 
almost  fairy  beauty.  "  This  is  our  romantic  stair,"  she 
said.  "  Will  you  come  up?  " 

Lionel  hurried  to  hold  the  heavy  cloth  while  she 
passed  behind  it.  He  followed  her  up  the  narrow  stair 
into  almost  complete  darkness.  It  struck  him  that  it 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  35 

was  very  still  there.  The  swish  of  skirts,  the  noise  of 
feet  treading  gently  on  metal  alone  sounded;  beyond 
there  was  an  absolute  romantic  silence.  The  swish  of 
the  dress  ceased  suddenly.  He  smelt  the  vague  in- 
definite perfume,  like  the  ghost  of  ambergris.  A  heavy 
velvet  fabric  touched  his  left  hand.  "  Mr.  Heseltine," 
said  Miss  Derrick's  voice  close  beside  him.  There  was 
laughter  in  her  voice. 

"  Where  are  you?  "  he  said,  groping  to  the  left.  He 
touched  her  shoulder.  "  I  beg  your  pardon/'  he  added. 
"  I  didn't  see  you.  Where  have  you  got  to?  " 

Pushing  aside  the  hanging,  he  found  Miss  Derrick 
standing  in  a  tiny  turret  chamber  which  opened  off  the 
stair.  It  was  lit  by  two  loopholes,  into  both  of  which 
old,  blue  painted  glass  had  been  heavily  leaded.  A 
very  dim  light  came  through  these  glasses.  Lionel 
could  see  a  bluish  dimness  of  tapestry  upon  the  walls. 
A  dim,  very  distant  noise  of  water  slowly  dropping,  as 
though  from  a  great  height,  made  the  silence  almost 
unbearable.  He  could  see  Miss  Derrick  looming  in  a 
black  mass  against  the  wall.  Her  hat  gave  her  the 
look  of  a  cavalier  listening  in  a  priest's  hole,  while  the 
roundheads  sounded  the  panels. 

"  Do  you  know  what  this  is,  Mr.  Heseltine  ?  "  she  said. 
"  This  is  De  Vries'  turret  room.  I  daresay  you  know 
his  picture  '  The  Blue  Vigil.'  He  did  a  few  lithographs 
as  well,  of  very  mysterious  lovers  looking  at  the  moon. 
I'll  show  them  to  you  after  coffee.  He  got  the  land- 
lord to  build  this  place  for  him,  so  that  he  could  work 
from  it." 

"  How  still  it  is  here,"  said  Lionel. 

"  Yes.  It's  copied  from  a  silent  tower  in  a  French 
chateau.  It  is  wonderfully  silent.  It  makes  one  feel 
tense,  as  though  something  were  going  to  happen.  It 
was  clever  of  him  to  think  of  the  dropping  water.  Isn't 
it  effective?" 


36  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  Yes.     It  sounds  like  a  cave  under  the  sea." 

"  He  used  to  say  that  modern  art  is  never  content 
with  itself.  He  said  that  each  art  was  always  striving 
to  give  the  effect  obtained  by  some  other  art.  He  said 
that  poetry  and  music  were  trying  to  become  painting, 
and  that  painting  was  trying  to  give  so  complete  a 
statement  of  an  emotional  or  intellectual  crisis  that  it 
was  trying  to  do  more  than  paint  can  do,  and  so  be- 
coming impossible.  In  his  own  pictures  he  wanted  to 
convey  the  feeling  that  his  figures  were  intensely  listen- 
ing to  a  noise,  or  music,  or  a  whisper.  Perhaps  art 
bores  you,  though.  Does  it  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Lionel.  "  It  interests  me.  Especi- 
ally modern  art.  I  look  on  it  as  a  morbid  state,  due 
to  the  turning  inward  of  the  healthy  activities.  It's 
an  hallucination,  Miss  Derrick,  caused  by  life  in 
towns." 

"  We  musn't  keep  Dora  waiting,"  said  Rhoda,  leading 
the  way  out  of  the  turret.  Lionel  followed  her  up  the 
stairs  to  the  music  gallery,  where  Dora  sat  among 
cushions  in  the  dimmest  corner  watching  her  kettle 
beneath  a  frame  of  the  great  lithographs,  "  The  Hush," 
"  The  Coming,"  "  The  Blue  Vigil,"  "  The  Moth-Hour." 
She  did  not  pay  much  heed  to  those  passionate  faces, 
like  souls,  intensely  listening.  She  stretched  forth  a 
practical  hand  for  the  coffee,  and  made  the  infusion 
neatly  and  precisely,  with  care  that  the  cups  should  be 
hot  before  she  filled  them.  Rhoda,  putting  up  her  veil 
above  her  hat  brim,  set  forth  an  array  of  neat  little  cakes, 
lined  with  sugar,  jam,  chocolate,  and  almond  paste. 
Then  they  ate  and  drank  deliciously.  As  they  ate, 
they  talked  nonsense  which  captivated  Lionel  more 
surely  than  the  sweetest  wisdom.  Though  he  jested 
with  them,  he  felt  sorry  for  himself.  He  felt  out  of  it» 
He  did  not  belong  to  this  delicate  feminine  world.  He 
glanced  at  these  women  with  wonder  and  awe.  Rhoda 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  37 

daintily  dusting  away  a  crumb  upon  her  lap,  and  Dora 
delicately  licking  her  finger  tips,  became  for  a  moment, 
quite  without  their  knowledge,  images  of  all  that  was 
beautiful  and  sacred  in  womanhood. 

He  had  meant  to  talk  with  Billy  Hamlin  about  the 
methods  of  conducting  elections;  but  did  not  do  so. 
Instead,  he  asked  Billy  Hamlin  judicious  questions 
about  Dora  Plunket,  from  which  he  gathered,  at  last, 
that  Rhoda  was  about  twenty-four  or  five  years  old, 
that  her  mother  was  dead,  that  her  father  who  was 
"  rather  a  beast/1  had  married  again,  and  seldom  saw 
his  daughter,  and  that  she  was  "  a  good-looking  girl, 
with  a  good  colour/'  Some  men  had  been  wild  about 
her,  but  Billy  was  surprised  at  this  since  she  was  rather 
quiet,  and  stand-offish.  Billy  had  heard  that  she  was 
very  clever  at  art  and  that  sort  of  thing,  which  he  sup- 
posed "  one  must  be  very  clever  to  be  able  to  do/'  Billy 
did  not  care  for  beautiful  clever  women  who  snubbed 
men  less  clever  than  themselves.  "  They  may  be  very 
refined,"  he  said,  "  but  they're  only  refined,  because 
some  man  has  saved  them  from  being  anything  else: 
and  they  only  seem  clever  because  they  never  have  to 
test  their  cleverness  in  action/1  Lionel  felt  that  the 
same  might  perhaps  be  said  of  Billy.  He  returned  to 
his  rooms  feeling  that  woman  could  do  no  wrong. 
Instances  of  women's  tact  occurred  to  him.  He  thought 
of  their  quickness  and  fineness.  "  Life  is  a  losing  battle 
to  them,"  he  thought,  "  but  they  are  heroic  at  it." 
Perhaps,  had  he  looked  at  his  thought  closely,  he  would 
have  seen  that  the  women  whom  he  had  in  mind  were 
dark,  with  lovely  colour,  blue-grey  eyes,  and  veils  of 
pure  blue. 

Lying  on  his  table  was  a  telegram  bearing  the  mark 
Ballyemond.  It  was  from  the  two  friends  with  whom 
he  was  to  start  a  paper. 

"  Keep  Friday  free,"  it  ran.     "  Crossing  Thursday 


38  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

night.  Want  to  arrange  finally.  Let  us  lunch  Friday 
one  o'clock  your  rooms.  Naldrett.  Fawcett." 

He  went  into  the  Strand  to  wire  to  Naldrett  that 
Friday  at  one  would  suit  him  very  well.  Afterwards 
he  went  to  his  bedroom  to  think  out  a  plan  of  action. 
He  drew  the  curtains  and  sat  in  the  half  darkness, 
staring  at  their  heavy  green  folds  for  a  full  hour,  trying 
to  think  all  round  his  problem.  He  had  borrowed  this 
practice  of  thinking  in  isolation  from  Stonewall  Jackson. 
His  friend  Naldrett  had  told  him  that  the  Irish  bards 
had  also  used  to  meditate  in  silence  and  darkness.  The 
bards  had  done  more  than  Jackson.  They  lay  down 
with  millstones  on  their  abdomens.  Naldrett  com- 
plained that  he  had  never  had  much  success  with  the 
Irish  process.  Thought  had  grown  more  complex,  or 
something  was  wrong  with  the  millstones,  or  abdomens 
weren't  what  they  were. 

It  grew  dark  before  he  saw  his  way.  It  was  a  danger- 
ous way,  with  lions  in  it;  but  then,  in  England,  the  lions 
are  mostly  sheep.  Rousing  from  his  thought,  he  took 
his  coat  and  went  out  to  dine  at  Simpson's.  He  lingered 
long  over  his  meal  so  as  to  shorten  the  evening.  Even- 
ings in  bachelor's  rooms  can  be  very  long. 

After  dinner,  Lionel  returned  to  his  rooms.  He  sat 
down  to  consider  how  to  pass  the  evening.  He  did  not 
care  very  much  for  plays,  but  he  was  fond  of  watching 
acting.  He  was  tempted  to  go  to  a  theatre.  It  was 
lonely  work  sitting  reading  in  rooms  in  the  Temple  from 
half  past  eight  till  eleven.  A  theatre  tided  one  over  that 
bad  time.  And  in  a  theatre  if  one  chose  one's  play,  a 
man  could  sympathise  with  a  woman;  he  could  feel 
tender  to  the  heroine;  and  mentally  vow  himself  her 
champion.  And  there  was  company  in  a  theatre.  Men 
and  women  in  a  crowd,  under  an  emotional  bond,  which 
made  them  politer  than  usual.  In  his  loneliest  nights 
in  London,  years  before,  when  he  was  without  a  friend, 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  39 

he  had  gratified  his  yearning  for  speech  with  a  woman 
by  going  to  a  theatre  pit,  and  there,  in  the  crowd,  giving 
up  his  seat  to  a  lady,  who  afterwards  sucked  pepper- 
mints. He  wondered  whether  women  ever  suffered 
from  the  torment  of  the  want  of  companionship  with 
men.  Perhaps  not.  Men  are  less  desirable  companions 
than  women;  and  young  women  live  less  alone  than 
men.  They  have  also  the  resources  of  knitting  and 
needlework,  where  men  have  only  tobacco.  He  thought 
that  he  would  go  to  a  theatre.  The  old  spiritual  want 
of  an  asylum  for  his  affections  was  beginning  to  eat  into 
him  again.  He  was  beginning  to  imagine  again  the 
graceful,  beautiful  dark  woman  sitting  opposite  to  him 
with  a  rose  in  her  hair,  laughing  at  life  with  him. 

He  suddenly  remembered  that  he  had  invited  these 
two  men  to  lunch  with  him  on  Friday  at  a  time  when  he 
was  pledged  to  Mrs.  Drummond.  The  recollection  altered 
his  plans.  It  gave  him,  he  thought,  a  reasonable  excuse 
to  go  to  Mrs.  Drummond  to  explain,  and  to  ask  her  to 
join  the  party.  He  could  do  it  by  letter,  he  told  himself, 
but  he  did  not  want  to  do  it  by  letter.  He  wanted  to 
talk  to  a  woman.  The  thought  of  the  possible  im- 
propriety of  such  a  call  occurred  to  him,  but  not  strongly 
enough  to  stay  him.  He  would  go.  He  looked  out  a 
route  in  the  map.  If  she  were  in,  he  would  see  her,  and 
perhaps  stay  for  a  few  minutes;  if  she  were  not  in,  he 
would  leave  a  note. 

He  wrote  a  few  lines.  Then  he  quickly  dressed,  put 
some  cigarettes  into  his  case,  and  went  downstairs  into 
the  night.  Out  in  the  street  he  shivered  in  spite  of  his 
coat,  for  the  air  struck  cold.  He  walked  rapidly  up 
Chancery  Lane  to  the  Tube.  In  the  train  he  sat  next  to 
a  curate  who  was  reading  a  copy  of  the  Backwash.  The 
sight  of  the  paper  made  him  think  of  Mary  Drummond1  s 
husband,  whose  degradation  helped  to  create  the  Back- 
wash. He  thought  of  the  drunken  clever  man  shut  up 


40  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

in  Scroyle's  office  with  a  bottle,  writing  the  witty  article 
at  which  the  curate  was  smiling.  He  wished  that  he  had 
read  some  of  Drummond's  things.  They  would  have 
helped  him  to  understand  Mrs.  Drummond,  whose 
winning,  eager  beauty  came  back  to  him  now  with 
enough  force  to  make  him  wish  her  to  be  at  home. 
There  were  points  about  Mrs.  Drummond  which  he 
could  not  explain  to  himself.  He  felt  that  there  was 
something  wanting  in  her.  Some  magic  was  lacking  in 
her.  She  left  him  cold.  He  wondered  upon  what  rock, 
or  mud,  her  marriage  had  been  wrecked.  He  stole  a 
furtive  glance  at  the  Backwash  in  the  curate's  hand. 
It  looked  like  any  other  monthly  review.  The  only 
distinctive  mark  which  he  could  see  was  a  bright  green 
star,  about  the  size  of  a  four-shilling  piece,  on  the  front 
page.  "  Price  2s.  6d.  "  was  embossed  in  white  upon  this 
star.  There  was  a  table  of  contents  below  it. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Lionel  to  the  curate. 
"  Would  you  let  me  see  the  contents  list  on  the  front 
page  of  your  paper  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  curate,  handing  it  over.  Lionel 
scanned  the  list.  A  sonnet  called  "  Agnus  Castus  "  by 
one  St.  Clair  Drummond,  figured  there;  between  a 
paper  on  "  The  Black  Cat  in  Modern  Symbolism  "  and 
the  translation  of  a  brief,  eerie  romance,  "  The  Rose  of 
Passion,"  by  one  Becquer,  of  whom  Lionel  had  read 
the  day  before.  "Thank  you  very  much,"  he  said, 
handing  back  the  paper.  "  An  interesting  number." 
The  curate  smiled,  and  assented.  He  thought  in  his 
mild  little  heart  that  this  bronzed  young  man  looked 
liker  a  son  of  Belial  than  one  of  the  children  of 
light. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  poem?  "  said  Lionel. 

"By  Drummond?"  said  the  curate.  "I  haven't 
read  it  yet;  but  he  has  a  very  scrupulous  mind.  Most 
scrupulous.  Most  beautiful."  He  said  it  with  clerical 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  41 

finality;  that  was  the  orthodox  view;  if  Lionel  dis- 
sented, he  was  done  for,  here  and  hereafter. 

"  Don't  you  think  he's  a  little  too  monastic  to  drama- 
tise his  personality  successfully?  "  Lionel  asked,  hoping 
to  have  the  parable  of  Drummond  expounded  to  him. 

"  As  to  monastic,"  said  the  curate.  He  paused. 
Monastic  was  an  extreme  term.  He  would  have  said 
perhaps  contemplative.  "  Yes,"  he  went  on.  "  His 
ideas  are  unworldly.  I  am  sure  that  he  would  look  on 
any  intrusion  of  his  personality  into  his  poetry  as  un- 
fortunate." 

"  I  would  like  to  discuss  that  point  with  you,"  said 
Lionel.  "  It  opens  up  the  whole  difference  between 
ancient  and  modern  art.  But  this  is  Marble  Arch.  I 
must  get  out  here."  He  nodded  to  the  clergyman  and 
hurried  out.  Glancing  back,  as  he  walked  along  the 
platform,  he  saw  the  clergyman  staring  after  him.  "  He 
takes  me  for  Drummond,"  said  Lionel  to  himself.  "  I've 
shattered  an  ideal  there." 

After  about  ten  minutes  of  walking  he  found  himself 
outside  the  door  of  Mrs.  Drummond' s  flat,  wondering 
whether  he  were  doing  a  rude  thing  in  calling  thus.  He 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  fearing  lest  he  should  annoy 
her.  But  he  wanted  to  talk  with  a  woman  at  any  cost. 
He  wouldn't  turn  back  now.  He  pressed  the  button  of 
the  bell.  An  elderly  maid  appeared.  She  was  a  rather 
tall,  pleasant-featured  woman,  with  a  big,  plain  pale 
face  and  small  brown  eyes.  Lionel,  who  was  always 
on  the  look-out  for  symptoms  from  which  his  mind  could 
learn  the  truth,  was  well  impressed  by  this  symptom. 
This  woman  was  an  honest,  capable  servant.  None 
but  the  good  are  well  served. 

Beyond  her,  a  passage  stretched  down  the  flat.  Its 
walls  were  covered  with  a  pale  brown  holland.  They 
were  hung  at  intervals  with  Arundel  Society  repro- 
ductions from  Italian  Masters.  "  Yes,  Mrs.  Drummond 


42  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

was  in.  What  name  could  she  say,  please  ?  "  Lionel 
gave  the  woman  a  card.  She  went  down  a  passage  to 
the  right.  He  waited  just  inside  the  door,  staring  at  a 
bare-legged  saint  in  green.  He  had  no  great  opinion  of 
saints,  but  the  drawing  made  him  glad  that  he  belonged 
to  a  race  that  could  do  such  things.  "  Minds  without 
littleness/'  he  muttered.  The  servant  asked  him  to 
follow  her. 

As  he  followed  the  servant  down  the  passage,  he 
noticed  that  the  floor  was  covered  with  a  white  straw- 
matting.  It  gave  the  passage  a  trim,  light,  cleanly 
neatness.  Like  the  holland  on  the  walls,  it  appealed  to 
Lionel  because  it  was  a  part  of  a  woman's  thought;  and 
her  home.  The  whiteness  of  the  doors,  the  creamier 
whiteness  of  the  matting,  and  the  paleness  of  the 
holland,  what  was  he  to  deduce  from  them?  What 
was  the  mind  which  chose  these?  A  lover  of  light,  a 
hater  of  dust,  and  unusual.  The  door  opened.  In 
five  seconds  more  he  was  in  Mrs.  Drummond's  presence, 
shaking  hands  with  her,  and  apologising  for  his  presence 
there. 

She  was  dressed  in  the  black  silk  which  she  had  worn 
the  night  before.  She  sat  on  a  big,  straight  sofa,  which 
had  been  drawn  in  front  of  the  fire.  The  room  was 
rather  dark.  It  was  only  lit  by  the  fire  and  by  a  read- 
ing lamp  with  a  green  shade.  Lionel  noticed  shelves  of 
books  running  all  round  the  room.  He  got  an  impres- 
sion of  white  and  black  and  green,  all  subdued  and  in- 
determinate, away  from  the  glow  in  the  grate.  The 
lamp  stood  behind  the  sofa  on  a  low  table.  Part  of  Mrs. 
Drummond's  face  was  in  shadow,  part  in  warm  light. 
A  book  which  she  had  been  reading  lay  open  on  the  sofa 
beside  her.  It  seemed  to  Lionel  that  her  face  had  more 
colour  than  it  had  shown  the  night  before. 

"  I  mustn't  sit  down,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to  explain 
my  coming  here.  I'm  afraid  I've  made  a  mess  of 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  43 

things.  You  asked  me  to  lunch  with  you  on  Friday, 
didn't  you?  Will  you  let  me  break  my  engagement? 
I've  had  to  wire  to  my  two  friends  to  lunch  with  me  at 
my  rooms  on  that  day.  They  won't  be  up  long,  and 
that  may  be  their  only  free  day.  Do  you  mind?  I 
thought  it  would  be  best  if  I  came  to  explain  to  you  in 
person.  Do  you  think,  Mrs.  Drummond,  you  could  be 
very  kind  and  come  on  Friday  to  meet  them?  I  was 
looking  forward  to  seeing  you.  I  shouldn't  like  to  miss 
our  talk.  Do  you  think  you  could  come?  " 

"  I  should  like  to,  very  much,"  she  said.  "  But  are 
you  sure  I  shan't  be  in  the  way?  " 

"  Women  are  the  saving  of  a  business  meeting,"  he 
answered.  "  You  may  be  quite  sure  that  you'll  make 
the  only  wise  suggestions  made.  So  will  you  come  ?  I 
don't  know  whether  we  shall  be  able  to  join  your  organi- 
sation. I've  been  thinking  about  that.  But  we'll  see 
on  Friday.  You'll  come  on  Friday?  " 

"  I  should  like  to,  very  much." 

"  Right.  I'm  glad.  I  live  in  chambers  in  Pump 
Court,  at  the  top  of  Number  4a.  Do  you  know  the 
Temple?" 

"  Yes.     I  used  to  live  there.     Do  you  lunch  at  one  ?  " 

"  Yes.     If  that  will  suit  you.     Will  it?  " 

"  Yes.     Thank  you  very  much." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Lionel.  A  suspicion  crossed  his 
mind,  that  he  ought  not  to  have  called,  that  he  ought 
to  have  written.  "  You  don't  mind  my  calling  to  ex- 
plain? "  he  asked.  "  I  hope  I've  not  interrupted  you." 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  answered,  smiling.  They  shook 
hands.  He  noticed  that  she  wore  no  wedding  ring. 
She  wore  only  two  rings.  An  old  French  ring,  of  tiny 
pearls  and  rubies,  and  a  little  thin  gold  thread  which 
clasped  a  green  pill  of  emerald.  In  another  moment, 
he  was  out  on  the  stairs,  amid  draughts  which  whisked 
his  coat  flaps.  Sleet  had  begun  to  fall.  The  cold  had 


44  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

a  rawness  which  touched  the  mind.  The  streets  of  the 
Portman  Estate  looked  very  cheerless,  under  the  gas- 
lamps.  They  gave  Lionel  a  sense  of  the  preciousness  of 
the  home  which  he  had  just  seen.  Beauty  and  order 
were  wonderful.  What  moved  him  was  the  beauty  of 
mind  which  had  built  up  that  outward  image  of  its 
order.  The  style  of  the  woman's  spirit  was  in  every 
detail  of  the  home,  just  as  evidently  as  in  her  dress. 
Thinking  of  it,  there  in  the  cold,  it  all  seemed  to  glow. 
Everything  in  the  room  was,  very  definitely,  a  thought 
from  her  brain,  chosen  and  arranged  by  a  special, 
personal,  spiritual  sensitiveness.  It  had  been  like  being 
in  her  mind.  The  contrast  of  the  glimmering  streets, 
shining  at  corners  with  policemen's  oilskins,  and  raw 
with  the  stink  of  fog,  made  him  feel  very  homeless.  A 
longing  for  wife  and  home  took  hold  of  him.  Suppose 
that  that  home  had  been  his,  and  that  beautiful,  grave 
lady  his  wife.  To  what  new  worlds  of  mind  and  soul 
would  that  room,  and  that  companionship,  be  the 
stepping-stones?  Suppose  that  he  were  now  walking 
to  such  a  home  and  to  such  a  woman.  Suppose  that, 
when  he  reached  his  rooms,  she  should  open  the  door  to 
him. 

When  he  reached  his  rooms,  the  fire  was  almost  out. 
The  sleet,  dropping  down  the  chimney,  hissed  as  it  fell. 
There  were  no  letters.  Groping  for  the  lamp,  he  spilled 
an  ash-tray  containing  the  fag  ends  of  cigarettes. 
Their  poisonous  frowsy  stink  nauseated  him.  It  was 
like  the  essence  of  bachelorhood.  He  had  walked  all 
the  way  from  the  Mansions.  It  was  nearly  half-past 
ten.  There  was  an  hour  to  win  through  before  bed 
gave  him  gaol  delivery.  He  could  not  work.  He  could 
not  think.  He  could  only  desire.  Chewing  a  pipestem 
in  the  cold,  he  desired  now  one  fair  head  now  another 
till  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  the  morning  he  was  still  haunted  by  that  desire.  He 
conjured  up  the  images  of  women.  He  imagined  them 
gracing  his  lonely  breakfast  table,  putting  a  spirit  into 
things.  He  thought  of  the  room  which  made  the  setting 
for  Mrs.  Drummond.  His  own  bare  soldierly  quarters 
seemed  a  barrack  by  contrast.  He  was  interested  in 
Mrs.  Drummond.  He  wanted  to  talk  with  her.  He 
was  moved  by  her.  He  was  unbalanced;  he  was 
obsessed.  He  realised  that  he  was  not  in  a  normal 
condition  of  mind  about  women.  It  was  not  talk  he 
wanted.  It  was  intimacy.  These  women,  Miss  Derrick 
and  Mrs.  Drummond,  were  too  much  in  his  thoughts. 
They  were  beginning  to  colour  his  ideas.  Between 
them  they  represented  Woman.  Letting  his  mind 
dwell  upon  them  rather  longer  than  was  wise,  he  dis- 
covered that  his  life  was  all  starved  and  troubled  by  the 
want  of  Woman.  His  mind  caressed  their  images,  very 
tenderly,  endowing,  now  one,  now  the  other,  with 
qualities  not  of  this  world.  Going  to  his  piano  he 
played  a  little  Chopin,  while  his  housekeeper  cleared 
the  table.  Music  was  one  of  his  delights.  Music  now, 
in  his  first  few  days  at  home,  after  so  long  an  absence 
abroad,  was  a  wonder  as  well  as  a  delight.  Each  note 
was  a  delightful  new  footstep  in  the  mind,  something 
bright  and  light,  coming  quickly.  Merely  to  finger  a 
note,  to  strike  it  repeatedly,  wondering  at  the  tone, 
the  musical  tone,  after  all  the  uncouth  noise,  was  like 
discovery.  He  fingered  the  notes  delightedly,  realising 
fully,  for  the  first  time,  what  a  miracle  music  is.  The 
notes  seemed  to  strike  right  through  to  the  marrow. 
He  played  a  favourite  movement  with  an  appreciation. 

45 


46  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

so  perfect  that  it  gave  him  understanding.  He  played 
a  phrase  which  especially  moved  him.  He  struck  it 
with  one  finger.  What  was  it  like  ?  He  played  it  again. 
It  was  like  a  sudden  little  plaintive  eddy,  caught  into  a 
man's  mind  amid  the  tumult  of  spate.  The  suggestion 
of  immense  force  suddenly  concentrated  on  the  tiny. 
The  sudden  passing  from  leisure  to  a  swiftness  beyond 
speech.  The  sudden  passing  from  tumult  to  the  in- 
describably still.  There  was  a  murmuring  first,  deep 
calling  to  deep,  echoings,  rushings,  hurryings,  swift 
splashings,  floggings  of  boughs  in  currents,  all  the 
tumult  of  water.  Suddenly  it  was  all  put  aside.  A 
little  tiny  twirl  of  it  was  emphasised  suddenly.  The 
flood  became  nothing.  One  was  left  staring  with  all 
one's  might  at  a  weak  little  twirl  in  the  backwash.  He 
was  pleased  when  he  had  thought  it  out.  He  felt  that 
consciousness  of  power  which  the  right  understanding 
of  a  thing  alone  gives.  He  stared  out  of  his  window 
over  the  Temple  prospect.  He  had  another  thing  to 
think  out. 

Wasteful,  sprawling  London  lay  below  him.  The 
roar  of  it  never  stopped.  It  was  like  a  great  wasteful, 
blatant  beast.  Down  there  in  the  grime  were  two 
classes  of  people.  There  was  a  class  which  bought  leave 
to  live,  asking  no  terms.  There  was  another,  much 
smaller  class,  which  bought  leave  not  to  bother,  asking 
no  questions.  There  they  were,  brutal,  callous.  And 
this  was  the  twentieth  century,  when  man  was  coming 
to  his  inheritance.  Thompson,  Mechnikov,  Ross,  Bruce, 
Marconi,  all  these  wonderful  brains  were  alive,  turning 
light  into  darkness.  They  had  proved  that  darkness 
need  not  exist.  That  one  has  only  to  turn  on  the  light, 
and  take  one's  place.  And  out  there  in  the  fog  the  old 
Satanic  wallow  was  going  on.  The  blindness  and  huge- 
ness of  the  wallow  seemed  the  more  awful  from  the 
littleness  of  the  bit  he  saw.  A  barrister  in  a  wig  crossed 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  47 

the  court  and  vanished  Clerks  passed.  Office  boys 
passed.  Postmen  passed.  They  passed,  and  others 
came,  always  the  same,  always  different,  out  of  the  night 
of  the  fog,  into  the  night  of  the  fog,  as  though  life  were 
the  passage  from  fog  to  fog,  and  fog  life's  cause,  and 
life's  end.  What  could  alter  it  ?  What  could  move  it  ? 
Who  was  strong  enough  to  tackle  that  brutality  and 
blindness  ?  Who  could  change  the  sprawling  to  march- 
ing, and  the  waste  to  use  ?  So  much  life  was  going  on, 
and  so  little  of  it  was  being  lived.  Life?  It  was  not 
life.  It  was  a  tide-meet  and  welter,  making  it  impos- 
sible for  life  to  be.  The  word  was  After  us  the  Deluge, 
not  With  us  the  beginning  of  a  New  Earth. 

He,  and  his  cousin  Fawcett,  and  Naldrett  were  to  fire 
off  a  few  little  crackers  at  the  monster.  Fawcett, 
correct,  calm,  ardent,  but  without  capacity  for  action. 
How  would  cousin  Leslie  tackle  the  wallow  there? 
Not  much  would  be  done  by  cousin  Leslie. 

Naldrett  was  the  other  ally.  Roger  Naldrett  the 
writer.  He  had  many  memories  of  Naldrett,  and 
much  affection  for  him.  What  was  Naldrett  ?  He  was 
intolerant,  literary,  suspicious,  so  nervously  sensitive 
that  life  was  hell  to  him.  An  intellect  naturally  good 
all  tattered  into  rags  with  literature.  A  mind  of  ideas 
all  dabbled  in  the  literary  paint-box.  A  sea-anemone 
kind  of  mind,  with  a  lot  of  red  jelly  tentacles  groping  in 
all  directions,  without  plan,  for  diatons.  So  much  for 
Naldrett.  How  would  Roger  Naldrett  tackle  the 
wallow  there?  Not  much  would  be  done  by  Roger 
Naldrett. 

The  day  after  to-morrow  Naldrett  and  Fawcett  would 
be  with  him,  there,  in  that  room,  eagerly  talking.  He 
told  himself  that  he  ought  not  to  be  judging  their  capa- 
cities. The  work  would  test  those.  What  he  ought 
to  be  judging  was  the  original  plan  suggested  and  ap- 
proved, only  a  few  nights  before,  round  Leslie's  fire  in 


48  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Ireland.  It  had  been  agreed  then  that  the  need  of  the 
age  was  a  laboratory  for  the  training  of  scientists,  and 
a  paper  for  the  discussion  and  testing  of  advanced 
scientific  theory.  Intellect  with  an  aptitude  for  art,  or 
law,  or  war,  or  theology,  has  its  organisation,  its  endow- 
ments, its  certain  prospects.  Intellect  with  an  aptitude 
for  science  has  to  wander  unhelped,  or  to  fix  itself,  like 
a  parasite,  on  the  old,  rich,  dying,  decaying  trunks. 
The  time  has  come  for  science  to  turn  man's  eyes  from 
his  present  ease  to  his  possibilities,  and  to  lift  him  along 
the  road  a  little.  That  was  their  task.  To  teach  man 
that  Science,  the  cleanly,  fearless  thing,  is  the  religion 
of  these  times,  not  only  promising,  but  able  to  grant, 
here  and  now,  the  Earthly  Paradise.  Was  that  worth 
doing  ?  Yes.  Very  well  worth  doing.  Was  it  all  that 
could  be  done?  They  were  three  together,  they  were 
young,  they  were  mighty.  Thinking  it  over  there,  by 
the  window,  Lionel  saw  that  it  was  much;  but  that  it 
did  not  tax  the  strength,  it  was  not  all  that  might  be 
tried.  It  smacked  too  much  of  teaching.  The  thing  to 
do  was  to  leave  teaching  to  the  impotent,  and  to  strive 
to  put  Science  in  her  place,  in  the  council,  on  the  throne, 
and  at  the  altar,  where  the  vatic  queenly  priestess  be- 
longed. That  was  the  manly  thing  to  try.  To  tackle 
this  purblind  world,  and  heave  it  over,  and  burn  the 
carrion  off  its  soul,  and  give  it  faith,  a  new  body,  new 
freedom,  delight.  His  pulse  quickened.  His  eyes 
began  to  kindle.  That  would  be  the  noble  thing.  To 
upset  the  present  holders  of  power  so  that  the  scientist 
might  reign.  That  was  the  only  thing  worth  doing. 
And  they  would  shirk  it,  as  too  big.  They  would  fear 
the  vested  interest.  They  would  knuckle  under  to  the 
brute  and  the  fool.  They  would  judge  it  meeter  to 
issue  a  little  penny  weekly  of  advanced  scientific 
theory. 

He  had  been  a  soldier.     He  knew  that  life  is  very 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  49 

like  war,  and  that  a  man  never  achieves  all  that  he  sets 
out  to  do.  But  he  knew  that  the  only  men  who  do 
anything  at  all  are  those  who  set  out  to  do  something 
Titanic.  Why  should  not  they  be  such  men  ? 

Something  of  the  kind  had  been  suggested  among 
them;  not  the  thing  itself,  but  some  shadow  of  it. 
Cousin  Leslie  had  said  that  the  great  thing  was  not  to 
confuse  the  issues,  that  their  duty  was  to  define  a  possi- 
bility, and,  especially,  not  to  mix  the  purely  creative 
with  the  controversial.  Naldrett  had  claimed  that 
controversy  was  waste  of  energy.  Energy,  he  claimed, 
was  the  quality  of  life.  The  duty  of  energy  was  to 
create  forms  of  energy.  If  it  took  to  destruction,  instead 
of  to  creation,  it  became  the  evil  it  destroyed.  That,  in 
short,  a  man's  duty  was  to  establish  a  positive  good,  and 
to  trust  that  that  little  leaven  might  in  time  leaven  the 
whole  lump.  "  Thus  it  is  in  a  decadence/'  said  Lionel. 
"  Men  get  too  wise,  and  God  destroys  them/'  He  felt 
very  lonely.  He  had  been  lonely  for  twelve  years.  It 
gave  him  a  pang,  a  little  sharp  accentuation  of  his  lone- 
liness, to  think  of  Mrs.  Drummond,  so  winning  and 
gracious,  so  attractive,  beautiful  a  figure,  to  a  man  alone 
in  chambers,  planning  a  war.  The  thought  of  doing  it 
for  her,  or  with  her,  helped  by  her,  was  sweet.  The 
thought  of  laying  it  at  her  feet,  when  done,  was  sweet. 
But  then  she  had  her  own  schemes.  And  rising  up 
before  the  image  of  Mary  Drummond  was  always  the 
fleshly  screen  of  Drummond.  She  belonged  to  another 
)  man.  He  could  make  no  love-offerings  to  Mary  Drum- 
mond. There  would  be  strict  bounds  even  to  a  friend- 
ship with  her.  One  would  have  to  avoid  so  much. 
One  could  come  such  a  little  way  towards  her  for  fear 
of  trespassing  over  sacred  borders.  Rhoda  Derrick  ? 
He  wanted  an-  asylum  for  his  affections,  poor  man.  He 
had  not  thought  of  Rhoda  Derrick  as  a  possible  help. 
All  that  a  bachelor  in  Lionel's  condition  needs  is  an 

D 


50  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

asylum  for  his  affections.  It  is  not  much.  It  is  readily 
found.  A  wax-model,  a  lay  figure,  a  doll,  an  idol,  will 
serve,  for  the  time.  Tragedy  comes  when  such  things 
are  mistaken  for  the  real  need  of  life,  a  help  and  in- 
spiration. 

He  had  not  judged  Rhoda  as  he  would  have  judged 
a  male  acquaintance,  however  slight.  His  mind  let  her 
image  pass  unquestioned  in  a  rather  rosy  mist.  Her 
attractiveness  had  put  his  intellect  off  its  guard.  His 
life  was  an  enthusiastic  application  of  the  desire  to  heal. 
He  was  neither  dull  nor  shallow.  But  one  side  of  him 
was  starved.  A  woman  meant  so  much  more  to  him 
than  to  a  man  in  normal  social  relations.  When  a 
woman  spoke  to  him  his  mind  felt  too  strongly  the 
fascination  of  her  being  as  a  woman  to  consider  her  as  an 
intellect  or  as  a  person.  Intellect  and  personality,  he 
had  himself.  He  found  in  Rhoda  something  exquisitely 
feminine.  He  was  starving  for  the  exquisitely  feminine. 
She  was,  as  it  were,  food  to  his  hunger.  His  craving 
was  too  real  for  him  to  criticise  what  appeased  it.  A 
woman  who  touches  any  one  of  a  young  man's  heart- 
strings is  often  credited  by  him  with  the  power  of 
touching  all.  Who  has  not  mistaken  a  little  beauty,  a 
pure  voice,  a  dainty  dress,  blue,  lovely  eyes,  and  a  be- 
witching shy  humour,  all  the  exquisitely  feminine  of 
her,  for  an  essential  noble  womanliness  ?  Who  can  see 
through  such  many-coloured  gauze,  when  the  blood  is 
blinding  the  eyes  ? 

Rhoda  came  into  his  mind  now,  a  beautiful  feminine 
image,  in  an  exquisite  blue  veil,  smelling  faintly  of 
lavender  and  of  verbena.  He  did  not  think  of  her  as 
helping  him.  His  intellect  had  sufficient  tact  for  that, 
blinded  as  it  was.  Only  in  his  loneliness  he  felt  how 
meet  it  would  be  to  be  inspired  by  her,  to  wear  one  of 
her  (probably  very  expensive)  pale  fawn  gloves,  in  his 
helmet  or  somewhere,  to  have  her  beauty,  at  the  least, 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  51 

to  look  at,  work  for,  and  worship,  even  in  the  thick  of 
the  fight. 

The  images  of  the  two  women  determined  him  in  the 
end.  He  would  go  into  this  thing.  He  would  do  what 
he  could  alone.  He  did  not,  as  yet,  see  all  that  the 
battle  would  involve.  At  the  first  planning  of  a  thing 
a  man  sees  his  mark  and  his  triumph.  He  sees  his  diffi- 
culties later.  Lionel  saw  only  this,  that  it  would  be  a 
great  thing  to  do  and  a  big  stand-up  fight.  And  for 
that  fight  some  one  would  have  to  create  money,  and 
the  means  of  swaying  the  public.  He  would.  Nobody 
else  was  eager.  Nobody  else  cared.  The  nation  was 
rotting  with  syphilis,  and  dying  of  cancer,  and  putting 
itself  out  with  pthisis.  And  nobody  cared.  They 
would  go  to  the  trouble  to  stamp  out  rabies  from  their 
kennels  and  allow  three-fifths  of  the  nation's  youth  to 
grow  up  with  neither  teeth  nor  bones. 

As  for  triumph.  There  was  no  sense  in  expecting 
triumph.  There  would  be  no  personal  triumph.  The 
triumph  would  be  for  England.  England  would  be 
leading  the  world.  She  would  be  the  first  nation  in 
history  to  occupy  herself  with  the  perfection  of  human 
life.  What  he  was  going  to  do  would  be  more  than 
an  agitation.  It  would  be  a  crusade.  It  would  be  an 
intellectual  movement  bigger  than  anything  since  the 
French  Revolution.  It  would  be  the  first  recorded 
attempt  to  make  science  as  potent  in  human  affairs  as 
the  church  and  the  police. 

He  was  lured  away  from  reality  at  this  point.  He 
saw  the  world  regenerate  with  a  new  enthusiasm. 
Soldiers,  sailors,  lawyers,  merchants,  and  parsons  had 
ruled  the  roost  in  the  past.  The  parsons  had  had  a 
big  idea.  The  others  had  had  their  virtues,  they  had 
been  manly  and  quick.  But  all  of  them  had  been 
intent  on  the  obtaining  or  maintenance  of  power. 
They  had  not  cared  for  life.  They  had  not  improved 


52  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

life.  They  had  obtained  or  maintained  power.  It  had 
never  once  occurred  to  them  that  all  this  genuflection, 
marching,  battering,  bartering,  and  conveyancing  were 
so  many  blinkers  to  keep  man  in  the  gutter.  They  had 
said  their  say  and  left  their  mark.  Man  was  in  his 
gutter,  well-blinkered.  Suppose  that  a  new  ruling  caste 
should  arrive,  now.  A  caste  of  those  who  not  only  be- 
lieved, but  knew,  that  life,  besides  being  mystery  and 
beauty  beyond  thought,  was  a  thing  to  be  improved 
beyond  imagination,  by  a  wise  handling  of  already 
acquired  knowledge. 

Suppose  that  for  the  first  time  in  the  world's  history 
there  should  be  a  ruling  caste  vitally  concerned  with 
life;  not  bothering  about  power,  not  troubling  much 
about  a  problematic  hereafter,  but  striving  with  all  the 
energy  of  alert  intellect  to  improve  life,  to  forbid  vile 
forms  and  ways  of  life,  to  foster  those  forms  which 
might  tend  to  make  the  world  memorable  among  planets. 
What  are  those  forms?  Only  the  knowledge  of  God 
really  counts.  And  what  is  the  knowledge  of  God? 
What  is  the  knowledge  of  man  ?  A  fineness  and  quick- 
ness in  apprehending  the  nature  of  the  spirit  from  the 
nature  of  its  manifestations.  Scientists  passed  their 
days  seeking  to  discover  the  laws  of  life,  and  to  appre- 
hend means  of  direct  communion  with  Life.  Already 
a  man  might  take  acquired  knowledge,  and  pronounce 
from  it  the  nature  of  the  obedience  exacted  in  return 
for  life.  If  this  new  caste  were  to  have  the  direction 
of  the  world,  how  soon  would  the  nature  of  life  become 
apparent.  How  soon  would  man  apprehend  the 
chemistry  which  makes  quick,  changing  the  invisible 
tadpole  into  Caesar,  Luther,  Buonarotti,  Newton? 


CHAPTER  IV 

THAT  night  the  fog  came  down  to  stay.  Lionel  built 
up  his  fires  shivering.  As  he  drew  his  curtains  his 
windows  showed  him  a  blur  of  glow,  a  luminous  heart  in 
the  gloom.  It  was  the  lamp  in  the  street  outside. 
"  Coming  on  thick/'  said  Lionel  to  himself.  The  street 
lamp  looked  like  a  bad  soul  fast  in  the  slough.  It  was 
not  like  light.  Gradually  it  narrowed  to  a  point. 
Noise  ceased.  The  opaqueness  seemed  to  smother,  to 
muffle,  to  stifle,  to  make  all  a  blur,  even  sound,  even 
will.  It  floated  indoors,  making  the  eyes  smart,  the 
nostrils  sore.  The  lamps  indoors  were  dimmed.  A 
room  became  like  a  little  vault  in  a  pyramid,  where 
people  hid  from  the  plague. 

So  the  night  passed,  and  the  next  day  and  yet  another 
night,  foulness,  rolling  down  noiselessly,  blotting  out 
the  blur  of  lamps,  anon  lifting,  yellowish,  livid, 
poisonous,  then  blackening  down  again.  Lionel  built 
good  fires,  and  withdrew  all  that  he  had  ever  said  against 
the  sun.  Sitting  over  the  fire,  with  a  drawing-board 
across  his  knees,  he  wrote  his  plans  of  campaign.  He 
thought  things  out.  He  invented  reasons  against 
them,  and  the  logical  answers  to  those  reasons.  Having 
got  his  main  idea,  he  had  only  to  apply  it  to  life.  His 
friends  were  going  to  write  about  the  beauty  of  science. 
They  would  appeal  to  Little  London,  to  the  five  thou- 
sand cultured  people  (mostly  women)  who  keep  intellect 
alive  among  us.  Let  them.  But  for  his  own  part,  he 
would  appeal  to  the  herd.  He  would  build  up  a  cheap 
press  to  win  the  crowd.  He  had  money  enough  to  start 
a  paper,  a  little  paper.  Had  he?  He  wasn't  sure  how 

53 


54  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

much  a  paper  would  cost  to  start.     That  was  one  of  the 
things  the  company  would  discuss  at  lunch. 

The  thought  of  lunch  reminded  him.  Would  his 
people  come?  It  was  not  the  day  one  would  choose 
for  going  out  to  lunch.  He  might  put  Mrs.  Drummond 
out  of  the  reckoning.  How  about  the  others?  They 
were  to  have  crossed  from  Ireland  during  the  night. 
Had  they  crossed?  The  paper  said  that  the  boat  ser- 
vice had  been  suspended.  The  fog  was  everywhere. 
The  Holyhead  boats  had  not  started.  The  Northern 
boats  had  not  started.  The  chances  were  that  his 
friends  were  delayed  on  the  other  side.  It  was  strange 
that  they  hadn't  telegraphed.  As  they  hadn't  tele- 
graphed, he  ought  to  prepare  for  them.  He  rang  for 
Mrs.  Holder,  and  gave  her  his  orders  for  the  lunch.  He 
got  out  his  microscope  and  worked  at  Protozoa.  He 
was  working  out  a  theory  of  the  Universe  from  the  data 
of  the  microcosm.  It  sounded  a  little  fantastic;  but 
he  wanted  to  establish  the  principle,  that  life  is  one,  but 
divisible,  and  that  the  great  puzzles  of  life  are  explicable 
by  the  minute  puzzles  already  solved.  He  glanced 
up  from  his  work  from  time  to  time,  shivered  at  the 
gloom  without,  and  thought  of  the  Indian  sun,  wrink- 
ling the  air  over  the  desert.  Ten  passed.  Eleven 
passed.  It  was  markedly  lighter.  Going  up  to  the 
window  he  saw  across  the  court  the  lights  in  the  chamber 
windows.  A  drowned-looking  tree  drooped.  Human 
beings  passed.  It  was  clearing.  The  rawness  of  the 
cold  drove  him  back  to  the  fire  again.  He  shuddered 
at  the  rawness.  It  got  right  into  his  marrow.  If  it 
were  warmer  he  would  be  able  to  have  some  music. 
Music.  A  little  Schumann.  He  opened  his  piano,  but 
could  not  face  the  cold  there.  He  went  back  to  the  fire. 
It  grew  steadily  lighter.  His  spirits  rose.  It  was  going 
to  clear  up.  There  would  be  a  sun,  not  a  real  sun,  but 
still  a  disc  or  a  brightness.  Mrs.  Drummond  would 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  55 

come.  His  clock  struck  once  for  eleven  thirty.  It 
was  worth  going  out  for  a  turn. 

He  put  on  his  thickest  coat.  He  felt  the  cold  dread- 
fully after  Africa.  He  took  a  handbag  with  him.  He 
would  walk  to  Covent  Garden  and  buy  a  few  flowers 
and  some  fruit.  In  a  minute  or  two  he  was  in  the 
Strand,  crossing  a  road  which  seemed  to  have  been 
buttered  and  then  munched.  The  lamps  were  burning. 
It  was  not  yet  day.  Darker  patches  of  fog  glowered 
ominous  on  the  north  side.  He  crossed  to  them.  He 
walked  up  Drury  Lane  into  darkness.  He  turned  off 
to  the  left  into  night.  People  passed  him.  A  market 
car-man,  sawing  at  his  horse's  mouth,  cursed  the  time. 
At  a  jam  in  the  traffic  a  policeman  restored  order.  "  Go 
round  by  Market  Street,"  he  was  saying.  "  There's  no 
entrance  this  side.  You  know  that's  well's  I  do." 

"  Ow'm  I  to  go  round  by Market  Street,"  came 

the  answer,  "  when  there  ain't  no road  in  Market 

Street  ?  "  It  seemed  final.  Lionel  collided  with  some  one. 
"  I  say,  I'm  sorry,"  he  cried.  "  I'm  sorry,"  said  the 
stranger.  "  Pretty  thick,"  said  Lionel.  The  stranger 
coughed,  assenting.  He  turned  suddenly  into  a  door- 
way at  the  left.  Beyond  the  door  fronting  the  road 
was  a  window  brilliantly  lit  with  green-shaded  electric 
lamps.  White  letters  were  on  the  window-pane — 
"  THE  BACKWASH.  The  Best  Monthly  Review. 
Leonard  Scroyle,  Publisher."  So  that  was  Scroyle's 
office.  A  cabman  came  downhill,  leading  his  horse. 
The  noise  of  the  Strand  was  strangely  like  the  noise  of  a 
river.  Boats  were  washing  past;  there  came  hails. 
One  expected  the  thrash  of  screws;  the  blast  of  the 
siren.  Lionel  slipped  across  a  buttery  road  to  a  row  of 
yellow  blurs.  Horses  slithered  tentatively  out  of  the 
gloom.  Men,  tramping  forlornly,  one  foot  on  the  kerb, 
one  in  the  gutter,  led  them  silently.  Black  filaments 
floated.  The  eyes  burned.  Cries  and  calls  sounded. 


56  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

They  were  like  the  fog  croaking  to  itself.  A  loafer, 
link-boy,  shoe-black,  something  predatory,  flogged  his 
arms  thrice  swiftly  as  Lionel  passed.  "  Bit  of  all  right, 
ain't  it,  sir/'  he  called.  Some  glimpse  of  Lionel  showed 
under  the  lamp,  perhaps  nothing  more  than  something 
kindly  in  the  poise  of  the  head,  which  roused  the  man's 
instinct.  "  Beg  yer  pardon,  sir,"  he  went  on,  with  the 
beggar's  swiftness  and  insistence.  "  Sir,  you  not  got 
such  a  thing  as  a  pair  of  ole  shoes  to  give  away,  sir! 
wouldn't  ask,  on'y  my  pair —  "  The  patter  rattled  out 
with  the  smoothness  of  long  practice.  "  I  haven't," 
said  Lionel,  diving  into  the  unknown.  "  Yah,  bleedin' 
toff,"  came  the  answer.  There  was  a  pause.  The  man 
groped  for  a  repartee.  Lionel  found  himself  inside  the 
market.  Wavy  threads  of  fog  floated,  moist-black,  in 
front  of  him.  Flares  hissed.  Wet  dirty  dead  bits  of 
greens  gave  the  place  a  flavour  of  kitchen  refuse.  There 
was  nothing  of  flower  or  fruit  in  the  manners  of  the 
stall-keepers.  They  seemed  to  have  no  illusions  left. 
In  the  murk  of  fog,  dimming  even  the  flares,  in  the  wet 
discomfort,  stinking  of  cabbage,  they  kept  watch. 
"Yn't  it  awful?"  one  woman  called.  "  Te  bad," 
another  answered.  "  D'yer  see  Al  this  mornin'  ?  " 

"  Chice  me.  Not  awf,"  replied  her  friend.  Lionel 
paused  at  the  stall. 

"  Annie,  there's  a  genelem  wytin'." 

"  Yes,  sir.     Wot  can  I  get  you,  sir?  " 

Lionel  bought  some  big  white  chrysanthemums,  some 
small  yellow  ones,  and  one  big  brown  one  like  a  mop. 
He  also  bought  a  few  pears.  Glancing  at  the  market 
entrance,  he  was  surprised  to  see  the  loom  of  buildings 
beyond. 

"  It's  clearing  up,"  he  said. 

"  Time  it  did  clear  up.  It's  bin  somethin'  crool," 
said  the  woman.  Lionel  paid  and  went.  Somehow  her 
words  cheered  him.  "  Time  it  did  clear  up."  "  Time 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  57 

it  cleared."  "  Time  we  had  a  spell  of  fine."  How  many 
times  had  he  heard  the  phrases?  In  England  it  was 
always  time.  England  was  always  ripe  for  a  change. 
Perhaps  she  was.  She  hadn't  that  name,  but  she  might 
be.  What  if  she  were  all  the  time  longing  for  a  change, 
and  all  the  time  too  stupid,  or  too  patient,  or  too  in- 
dustrious to  define  her  longing  ? 

The  fog  was  slowly  lifting.  It  was  passing  away  to 
the  north.  Its  going  was  not  final:  it  was  for  the 
moment  only.  Menace  of  more  was  everywhere,  in  the 
sky,  lowering  on  the  roofs,  wherever  Lionel  looked. 
The  air  was  foul.  It  seemed  to  corrode  the  nostrils. 
It  was  raw,  cuttingly  chill,  and  charged  with  poisons. 
Lionel  walked  down  Fleet  Street  for  a  short  distance, 
glanced  at  the  file  of  a  paper  in  a  newspaper  office,  and 
returned  to  his  room.  Church  bells  played  the  chime 
of  the  quarter  past  twelve.  A  telegram  was  on  his 
table.  "  From  Mrs.  Drummond,"  he  murmured,  taking 
it.  He  opened  it. 

It  was  dated  Northern  Counties  Station,  Belfast.  It 
was  brief  and  to  the  point.  "  Delayed  by  fog.  Keep 
Sunday  and  Monday  free.  Naldrett."  It  had  been 
handed  in  at  Belfast  more  than  an  hour  before.  He 
had  expected  it;  yet  he  was  disappointed.  Now  he 
would  have  to  telegraph  to  Mrs.  Drummond  not  to 
come.  But  was  it  necessary  ?  Would  she  be  coming  ? 
She  wouldn't  start  in  fog  like  this.  It  was  strange  that 
she  had  not  telegraphed  already.  If  he  went  out  to 
telegraph  he  would  be  sure  to  pass  a  message  from  her. 
He  maligned  the  fog.  Now  he  wouldn't  see  her.  Well, 
he  would  have  to  telegraph  to  be  on  the  safe  side.  It 
wouldn't  get  to  her  in  time  to  stop  her.  But  there,  the 
fog  was  gathering  again.  She  wouldn't  come.  He 
went  to  the  telegraph  office  in  Fleet  Street  and  sent  a 
telegram.  "  My  friends  detained  by  fog.  Willingly 
absolve  you  if  you  prefer  come  Monday.  Heseltine." 


58  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

No  telegram  came  for  him  while  he  was  out.  The  fog 
was  settling  down  again.  He  built  up  the  fire,  and 
arranged  his  chrysanthemums.  Mrs.  Holder  came  in 
to  lay  the  table. 

"  Will  your  friends  be  coming,  Mr.  Heseltine?  "  she 
asked,  having  seen  the  telegram.  "  A  day  like  this,  it's 
se  bad  going  anywhere.  Oh,  it  is  reelly." 

"  Mr.  Naldrett  and  Mr.  Fawcett  won't  be  here,  Mrs. 
Holder.  The  lady  may  be.  I've  not  heard.  Better 
lay  for  two,  in  case." 

"  I  sent  my  girl  out,"  said  Mrs.  Holder,  "  just  to  get  a 
few  things.  But  one  'as  to  go  se  far  for  things  here, 
Mr.  Heseltine.  Oh,  one  reelly  'as.  An'  she  ses  to  me, 
'  Mother/  she  ses  ,  '  it's  se  thick  I  reelly  don't  like  going.' 
And  you  know  it  is,  sir.  It  reelly  is.  It's  not  nice 
weather  for  any  young  girl  to  be  out.  Why,  she  might 
be  run  over,  you  know,  sir.  Girls  are  se  silly.  They 
reelly  are.  They're  not  fit  to  be  trusted.  I  say  nothing 
against  my  girl.  She's  been  a  good  daughter  to  me. 
But  you  know,  sir,  if  she  went  out,  an  a  motor  car  was 
to  run  over  'er  leg,  why,  there'd  be  an  end,  sir.  Girls 
are  se  silly."  She  smoothed  down  the  wrinkles  in  the 
cloth,  and  turned  to  the  sideboard  to  arrange  the  fruit. 
She  began  to  probe  for  information. 

"  Will  it  be  Mrs.  Fawcett,  sir,  the  lady  wot's  coming  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  answered. 

"  I  thought,  sir,  as  you'd  mentioned  Mr.  Fawcett, 
perhaps  it  was  Mrs.  Fawcett.  Will  the  lady  take  wine, 
Mr.  Heseltine?  I  put  the  claret  down  by  the  fire  all 
ready." 

"  Right.     I'll  make  the  coffee,  Mrs.  Holder." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  Will  the  lady  sit  back  to  the  fire, 
sir?" 

"  No.  Lay  at  the  ends."  She  laid  at  the  ends.  By 
and  by  she  began  again. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  59 

"  You'll  want  another  lamp  in,  sir.  You  reelly  will. 
It's  like  night.  I  should  'ardly  think  the  lady  would 
venture  out,  sir/1 

Lionel  looked  out  of  the  window.  It  was  already 
night  there.  He  could  not  see  across  the  court. 

"  What's  the  time,  Mrs.  Holder?  " 

"  Five  minutes  to  one,  sir.  But  I  shan't  be  ready  to 
dish  up,  sir,  not  for  another  ten  minutes.  I  said  to 
myself,  sir.  Wot  with  this  fog,  and  one  of  them  a  lady, 
they're  sure  not  to  be  punctual,  not  to  the  minute  of 
one." 

"  Well.  We  must  wait."  He  went  to  his  room  to 
wash  the  fog  from  him.  The  church  bells  chimed  the 
hour.  The  muffling  of  gloom  drooped  thicker.  In- 
tangible felt  was  noiselessly  cloaking  London.  He 
surveyed  his  dinner-table.  It  looked  pretty.  He  had 
some  good  old  silver  and  glass.  He  removed  the  lamp. 
He  brought  out  his  silver  candlesticks  with  the  rose 
shades.  They  gave  a  glow  of  colour.  No  telegram 
had  come  for  him.  It  was  ten  minutes  past.  She 
would  have  had  his  telegram  by  this  time. 

"  Shall  I  dish  up,  sir?  "  said  Mrs.  Holder. 

"  Wait  five  minutes  more,"  he  said.  He  stared  at 
the  Correggio  which  hung  over  his  mantelpiece.  It 
was  a  fine  thing.  The  drawing  of  the  Child's  foot  and 
ankle  was  so  wonderful,  and  then  the  character  in  the 
Virgin's  mouth.  Correggio  was  said  to  be  "  soft." 
There  was  intellect  as  well  as  grace  in  this  thing.  A 
fine  thing.  Correggio  could  paint.  Lionel  loved  the 
picture.  There  was  a  romance  about  it.  One  of  his 
ancestors  had  come  by  it,  rather  strangely,  under  tragic 
circumstances.  It  was  a  strange  story.  Correggio's 
gentle  mind  would  have  been  touched  by  it.  Lionel 
stared  at  the  Virgin's  face,  wondering  at  the  complete- 
ness of  the  artist's  vision.  He  had  made  her,  definitely, 
a  woman,  moulded  by  life  in  this  world  to  the  endurance 


60  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

of  womanhood,  and  yet,  he  had  given  her  divinity,  a 
rapture  and  consecration.  It  was  clever  of  him,  too,  to 
have  concentrated  all  his  intellect  upon  the  woman, 
while  concentrating  all  his  picture  upon  the  child.  It 
was  a  very  noble  picture.  Lionel  cared  for  it  because 
it  bore  witness  to  the  possibility  of  the  perfection  of 
man's  mind.  It  was  perpetual  evidence  that  thought 
could  be  more  real  than  nature. 

"  I  won't  wait  any  longer,  Mrs.  Holder/ '  he  called. 
"  It's  no  good  waiting.  I'll  have  lunch."  He  sat  down. 
Mrs.  Holder  brought  filletted  plaice.  "  I  might  have 
had  it  five  minutes  ago,"  he  grumbled,  to  allay  her. 
"  Mrs.  Holder,  you  are  a  wonder.  How  long  did  it  take 
you  to  arrange  this  dish?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  only  a  minute's  job,  sir.  You  jest  fold 
the  napkin  and  put  on  a  bit  of  parsley." 

"  But  I  like  it.  It's  so  dainty.  You  ought  to  be 
doing  for  a  duke,  Mrs.  Holder." 

"  Oh,  sir.     It's  nothing,  sir,  that  isn't." 

"  Where  did  you  learn  these  things,  Mrs.  Holder?  " 

"  As  a  girl,  sir.  I  was  with  a  family  near  Oxford,  sir. 
An  army  family.  Gen'l  Piddington  the  name  was.  I 
don't  know  if  you've  ever  heard  of  him,  sir.  Very  good 
general  they  said  he  was,  sir.  Very  clever  hat  it.  In 
India,  I  think  I  heard  one  of  them  say.  But  I  was  on'y 
a  girl  in  them  days.  I  didn't  know  much  about  no 
generals."  Lionel  had  not  heard  of  Piddington.  Earth 
must  be  rich  with  the  remains  of  Piddingtons.  He  con- 
centrated on  the  dish  again. 

"  I  don't  think  many  girls,  nowadays,  learn  how  to  do 
these  things,"  he  said.  It  was  what  is  called  a  friendly 
lead. 

"  No,  sir.  Girls  are  se  silly  now,  sir.  Oh,  sir,  they 
reelly  are."  Mrs.  Holder  gathered  away  the  fish-dish. 
"  And  you  know,  sir,  things  are  done  for  girls  now,  sir, 
which  there  wasn't  in  my  day.  Yet,  d'you  think  I 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  61 

could  trust  my  girl  to  get  ready  a  pudding  for  you,  sir, 
or  even  so  much  as  to  boil  you  a  egg  for  your  breakfast  ? 
No,  sir.  You  know,  sir,  I  reelly  couldn't.  I'd  be 
ashamed  to  tell  you  how  little  my  girl  can  do  about  a 
'ouse.  That's  the  new  education,  sir."  What  would 
happen  to  a  poor  bachelor  when  the  old  education 
became  extinct?  There  came  a  knock  at  the  door 
without.  It  was  a  refined,  almost  timid  knock.  It  was 
not  the  knock  of  a  messenger  boy. 

"  There  she  is,"  said  Lionel  to  himself. 

"  To  think  she's  been  out  in  this.  What  a  dreadful 
journey  she  must  have  had,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Holder, 
wobbling  off  into  the  passage.  Lionel  rose  and  took 
up  a  position  at  the  fire.  He  heard  the  outer  door  open. 
He  heard  a  voice  and  a  rustle.  An  umbrella  went  into 
the  stick-rack.  There  was  a  moment's  hesitation. 
"  I'll  just  hang  it  up,  mum,"  said  Mrs.  Holder's  voice. 
A  low  voice  answered.  The  door  opened.  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond  came  in  quickly,  holding  out  a  hand  from  which 
she  had  already  stripped  the  glove.  "  How  d'you  do  ?  " 
she  said.  Her  senses  were  alert  for  the  other  guests. 

"  Mrs.  Drummond,"  said  Lionel,  shaking  hands. 
"  The  party  has  gone  to  pieces.  My  friends  aren't 
here.  I  telegraphed  to  you  the  moment  I  heard  from 
them.  But  I  suppose  I  was  too  late.  Are  you  frozen  ? 
Look  here.  Come  and  get  warm.  I'd  begun  lunch.  I 
was  praying  you  hadn't  started.  I  say.  You  oughtn't 
to  have  come.  Look  here.  How  did  you  manage  to 
get  here  ?  A  day  like  this."  He  drew  up  his  best  chair 
to  the  fire  for  her.  She  stood  glancing  about. 

"  What  a  jolly  big  room,"  she  said,  twisting  up  her 
veil.  "  You  know,  it  was  quite  clear  when  I  started.  I 
must  have  just  missed  your  telegram.  I  came  by  the 
circle  from  Baker  Street/'  She  stripped  her  other  glove. 
They  were  big  brown  gauntlet  gloves  lined  with  fur. 
She  laid  them  together  on  the  mantelpiece.  "  It's  so 


62  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

nice  having  gloves  too  big  to  leave  behind/1  she  said. 
She  caught  sight  of  the  Correggio.  "  Do  let  me  see 
your  picture/'  she  said,  leaning  forward  eagerly.  She 
examined  it.  "  Is  it  Parmignano?  "  she  asked,  turning 
swiftly.  She  was  a  little  nervous.  Lionel  lifted  two  of 
the  candles.  "  It's  a  small  Correggio/'  he  said.  "  It's 
not  in  very  good  condition."  They  looked  together. 
She  wore  black  over  a  white  blouse  broidered  with  roses 
v  at  the  throat.  She  wore  a  brooch  made  from  an  aureus 
of  Augustus.  Something  in  the  softness  of  her  gaze 
touched  Lionel.  It  was  so  much  an  eagerness  of  soul. 
He  felt  suddenly  a  little  ashamed  of  a  want  of  similar 
eagerness  in  many  of  the  pursuits  of  life. 

"It  is  very  beautiful,"  she  said,  simply.  "  How 
good  the  child  is!  "  Mrs.  Holder  was  waiting  for  her. 

"Would  the  lady  like  her  boots  dried?"  said  Mrs. 
Holder,  using  the  oblique  attack  through  Lionel.  "  If 
you  would  like  to  take  them  off,  mum,  I've  got  a  good 
fire  ready.  My  girl  would  lend  a  pair  of  slippers." 
Mrs.  Drummond  thanked  her,  but  her  boots  were  not 
at  all  wet. 

"  I  think  you'll  find  everything  ready  then,  sir,"  said 
Mrs.  Holder.  "  Will  you  please  ring,  when  you're  ready 
for  the  fowl?"  She  went  out  to  her  preparations, 
relieved  that  her  lodger,  whom  she  called,  in  her  heart, 
"  that  poor  young  man  alone  in  London,"  had  not 
fallen  a  victim  to  a  Baggage. 

"  You  must  be  half-dead,"  said  Lionel,  as  they  sat 
down.  "  I  wish  I'd  had  the  sense  to  go  to  look  for  you 
at  the  Temple  Station.  How  did  you  find  your  way? 
Oh!  But  of  course  you  know  the  Temple.  I'm  afraid 
this  fish  won't  be  very  nice.  I'm  so  worried  about  my 
telegram  not  reaching  you.  Look  here,  Mrs.  Drummond, 
will  you  promise  to  come  to  meet  my  friends  on  Sunday 
or  Monday?  " 

"  No.     I'm    afraid    I    can't    on    either    day,"    she 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  63 

answered.  "  Could  you  bring  them  to  see  me,  the  week 
after?" 

"  If  they're  up/'  he  promised,  "  I  should  be  de- 
lighted." She  glanced  at  the  Correggio.  Each  was 
a  little  nervous  that  the  other  was  nervous.  Mrs. 
Drummond,  woman  fashion,  endeavoured  to  end  the 
nervousness  by  getting  him  to  talk  of  himself. 

"Will  you  tell  me  how  you  got  your  Correggio?" 
she  said.  "  Did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't  get  it.  It  was  left  to  me.  It's  rather 
a  curious  story.  By  the  way,  will  you  drink  claret  or 
mineral  water?  " 

"  Plain  water,  thank  you."     He  filled  her  glass. 

"Do  you  paint,  Mrs.  Drummond?  You  do,  don't 
you?" 

"  No.     Not  now.     I  used  to." 

"  People  ought  to  be  made  to  paint,"  said  Lionel. 
/"  They  ought  to  learn  to  paint  before  they  learn  to  read. 
Reading  is  the  curse  of  the  age.  Sport  and  tobacco  and 
reading.  They  enable  men  to  do  nothing  pleasantly. 
Reading  rots  the  mind.  I  hope  you  never  read,  Mrs. 
Drummond." 

"  Do  you  call  Reports  of  Commissions  reading?  " 

"  No.  Those  I  call  drama.  But  don't  you  agree 
with  me?  Drawing  exercises  mind  and  hand.  Read- 
ing indulges  the  mind,  and  helps  it  to  many  other 
indulgences.  What  would  you  teach  children,  Mrs. 
Drummond?  " 

"  I  could  not  bear  to  teach  children  anything  in 
London,"  she  answered.  "  A  child's  first  teaching 
ought  to  be  from  nature,  and  physical.  Its  little  body 
ought  to  be  taught  to  have  teeth  and  strong  little  bones, 
and  eyes.  What  is  the  good  of  trying  to  train  a  mind 
when  the  little  body  is  full  of  poison  which  is  fretting 
the  brain  ?  But  won't  you  tell  me  about  your  picture  ?  " 

"  The  picture,"  said  Lionel,  as  the  fowl  was  brought 


64  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

in,  "  was  originally  painted  by  Correggio  for  the  Count 
of  Matole.  It  was  in  the  house  of  the  Counts  of  Matole, 
near  Rivoli,  for  a  couple  of  hundred  years.  Then  the 
family  came  rather  to  grief  or  died  out,  and  the  picture 
passed  to  a  daughter  who  had  married  a  landowner  at 
a  place  called  Poggi,  near  Alexandria.  This  was  all 
worked  out  years  ago.  It's  absolutely  certain  truth. 
Then  towards  the  end  of  the  Revolutionary  Wars, 
Napoleon  invaded  Lombardy  to  attack  the  Austrians. 
My  mother's  grandfather,  a  man  named  Huntley,  was 
serving  with  the  Austrians.  He  was  on  the  staff  of 
their  general.  Melas  I  think  his  name  was. 

"  Are  you  interested  in  war  at  all?  It  was  rather  an 
interesting  war.  Napoleon  got  right  round  the  Austrian 
rear,  and  then  divided  his  army.  And  the  Austrians 
attacked  one  of  the  divisions  at  a  place  called  Marengo. 
Napoleon's  white  horse  was  called  after  the  battle.  I 
daresay  you'll  remember.  Marengo  is  just  beside  Poggi. 
The  battle  was  at  its  worst  just  to  the  north  of  Poggi. 
The  French  got  beaten  there,  and  had  to  fall  back. 
Later  in  the  day,  they  won,  of  course,  but  at  first  they 
were  repulsed.  Well.  Just  when  they  fell  back,  my 
great  grandfather  with  the  rest  of  the  Austrian  staff 
stopped  in  a  garden  at  Poggi,  outside  a  burning  house. 
They  were  dismounted,  having  something  to  eat.  And 
he  came  across  the  body  of  a  girl,  with  long  fair  hair, 
lying  dead  in  the  grass  with  her  head  on  the  picture 
there.  I  suppose  she'd  carried  out  the  picture  when 
the  house  was  set  on  fire,  and  then  a  ball  had  hit  her. 
She  was  quite  dead.  My  great  grandfather  knew  some- 
thing about  pictures.  He  took  the  picture  and  a  lock 
of  the  woman's  hair,  intending  to  find  her  relatives  after 
the  battle.  You  see.  He  made  sure  that  the  relatives 
would  be  in  Alexandria,  and  that  the  war  would  end 
that  afternoon.  But  more  French  troops  came  up  and 
the  battle  began  again,  and  the  Austrians  were  smashed. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  65 

And  he  didn't  get  back  to  Poggi  for  thirteen  years,  and 
then  it  was  too  late.  The  picture's  history  is  on  a  parch- 
ment at  the  back  of  the  panel.  He  was  able  to  verify 
that  easily  enough.  *i  But  he  could  find  no  trace  of  any 
living  claimant,  nor  even  who  the  woman  was.  So  he 
stuck  to  it,  and  there  it  is.  Strange  and  sad,  don't  you 
think  ?  Yet  if  you  look  at  it,  it's  not  like  a  story,  it's 
like  a  picture.  If  I  published  the  story,  there' d  be  three 
pictures  on  it  in  next  year's  Academy." 

"  Pathetic,"  said  Mrs.  Drummond.  "  How  ghastly 
war  is.  What  happened  to  the  lock  of  hair?  " 

"  Here,"  said  Lionel,  going  to  the  mantel  and  unlock- 
ing a  little  silver  box  which  stood  there.  He  took  out 
a  glass  locket  in  which  the  lock  of  hair  had  been  curled. 
"You  see,"  he  said;  "curious,  isn't  it?  That's  the 
only  real  thing  about  Marengo  now  existing,  and  even 
that's  all  due  to  Correggio's  having  been  taught  to 
draw." 

"  How  beautifully  fine  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Drummond. 
"  It's  like  a  child's." 

"  Yes.  It's  very  fine  hair.  It  must  have  gone  with 
a  very  delicate  skin.  And  one  can't  have  any  physical 
fineness  without  some  inner  quality  which  it  expresses. 
She  must  have  been  very  delightful.  Quite  slight, 
don't  you  think,  but  very  delightful?  " 

"  Quite  slight,  and  fond  of  music." 

"  The  Orpheo,  on  a  spinet.  What  was  the  music 
then?  She  was  conventional." 

"  Not  even  that  in  1800.  That  came  later.  Con- 
ventual." 

"  Yes.  Yes.  Conventual."  He  smiled  at  the  little 
pun.  "  She  had  a  very  white  little  bedroom." 

"  Do  you  really  believe  in  the  physical  expressing  the 
mental  or  spiritual?  "  Mrs.  Drummond  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lionel.  "  You  can  tell  a  man's  nerves 
from  his  teeth,  and  his  brain  from  his  nose,  and  his 

E 


66  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

intellect  from  his  mouth.  And  his  faith — what  d'you 
tell  his  faith  from?  What  do  you,  Mrs.  Drummond?  " 

"  His  voice,  I  think.  You  get  all  the  character  in 
the  voice." 

"  Supposing  you're  deaf?  " 

"  Then  you  get  the  sixth  sense  worth  all  the  others 
put  together.  Then  you  divine  instead  of  deducing." 

"  Yes.  You  divine.  How  fine  people  are  when  their 
bodies  have  been  all  bred  away,  just  up  to  the  dangei 
point."  He  rang  for  the  tart.  "  Mrs.  Drummond," 
he  went  on  suddenly.  "  Do  you  take  a  gloomy  view  of 
things?  As  the  journalist  asked  my  friend,  are  you 
morbid  ?  Are  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Drummond,  smiling.  "  You  mean, 
am  I  pessimistic?  No.  Only  writers  are  pessimistic. 
There  are  many  things  in  modern  life  which  shock  me 
and  pain  me  unutterably.  But  then  I  feel  there's  all 
this  passion  for  reforming  the  world.  Don't  you  feel  it  ? 
An  enthusiasm  for  life,  which  is  quite  a  new  thing, 
something  new  in  the  soul?  " 

"  It  is  only  part  of  the  disease,"  said  Lionel.  "  That 
same  enthusiasm.  It  means  that  the  activities  have  no 
normal  outlets,  but  are  turned  inward,  and  projected 
on  an  idea." 

"  I  blame  you  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Drummond. 
"  That's  the  science  of  the  past  generation.  It  is  nega- 
tive atheistic  science,  giving  a  physical  reason  for  a 
spiritual  condition.  You  and  I  are  in  another  genera- 
tion. Our  science  is  positive  and  religious,  don't  you 
think?  Science  now  is  really  aiming  at  doing  just 
the  reverse.  Giving  spiritual  bases  to  physical  con- 
ditions." 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  musing.  He  turned  the  conver- 
sation from  the  theoretical.  "  You  were  going  to  tell 
me  something  of  what  you  are  doing  in  this  Public 
Health  movement.  I've  been  wondering  about  that. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  67 

What  are  your  tactics  going  to  be?  Are  you  going  to 
frighten  people?  " 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  That  would  be  a  mistake.  We 
want  to  make  people  think." 

"  I  think  you're  wrong,  Mrs.  Drummond,"  he  said. 
"  You  limit  your  appeal  by  that.  You  ought  to  make 
people  act.  The  only  people  who  think  are  the  five 
thousand  like  you.  And  they'll  think  without  help 
from  you.  The  others,  who  don't  think  and  can't 
think,  have  either  to  be  jolly  badly  scared,  or  driven. 
And  the  reason  I  hold  out  against  joining  your  move- 
ment is  just  that,  that  I'm  afraid  you  are  going  to  be  too 
nice  to  people  and  that  nothing  will  get  done.  Be  still 
and  strong,  Mrs.  Drummond.  '  Bark  an  order  and  let 
the  guns  cough  death.'  Don't  be  nice  to  people.  Scare 
the  lives  out  of  them,  and  make  them  nice  to  you." 

By  this  time  they  were  eating  their  pears.  Lionel 
was  warming  to  his  talk,  Mrs.  Drummond  was  letting 
him  run  on,  so  that  she  might  have  his  point  of  view. 
She  liked  him  for  his  voice,  for  his  confident  youthful- 
ness,  and  for  a  touch  of  feeling,  hardly  more  than  a  tone, 
in  his  story  of  the  picture.  He  reminded  her  a  little  of 
what  had  been  attractive  in  the  young  man  who  had 
been  so  much  to  her.  She  found  pleasure  in  the  evidence 
of  refinement,  in  the  flowers,  the  glass,  the  old  silver, 
in  the  manly  neatness  of  the  room.  She  was  glad  that 
the  young  man  maintained  a  standard  of  life,  even  in 
chambers.  She  liked  him  for  drinking  only  water,  and 
for  the  niceness  of  his  manners.  As  yet  her  mind  was  a 
little  puzzled  by  him.  She  was  not  sure  how  far  his 
occasional  cynicism  was  to  be  taken  as  evidence  of 
character.  Like  most  women,  she  divined  his  capacity, 
more  from  his  manner  than  from  what  he  said,  but  her 
brain  was  that  choice  intellectual  thing,  the  brain  of  a 
man,  made  finer  and  nobler  by  the  discipline  of  woman- 
hood. Her  brain  was  testing  him  by  a  woman's  high 


68  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

standards.  She  liked  him.  There  was  something  very 
nice  about  him.  He  had  a  winning  way  of  leaning 
forward  to  listen,  which  came  from  the  heart.  It  was 
genuine  deference,  a  deference  of  the  whole  man.  Yet 
there  came  into  her  spirit  the  suggestion  of  a  want  of 
scruple  in  him,  the  suggestion  that  he  might  perhaps  do 
things,  even  fine  unselfish  things,  without  a  scrupulous 
regard  for  the  Tightness  and  fineness  of  his  methods  in 
the  doing  of  them.  That  pained  her,  for  she  was  one 
of  those  very  noble  women  to  whom  life  is  a  sacrament. 
Any  failure  to  realise  the  significance  of  the  moment  in 
its  relation  to  the  day  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  surrender 
of  shining  frontiers. 

"  Won't  you  draw  up  to  the  fire,  now/*  said  Lionel. 
"  1*11  move  this  chair  up.  And  I'll  make  coffee.  You'll 
have  some  coffee?  " 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  taking  the  chair.  Lionel 
knelt  on  the  hearth-rug  to  thrust  his  kettle  well  into 
the  blaze.  She  watched  him  with  the  feeling  that  he 
was  a  wayward  boy,  and  that  she  ought  to  be  stroking 
his  head,  as  a  mother  does  in  stories. 

"  Mr.  Heseltine,"  she  went  on,  "  you'll  only  look  on  me 
as  a  suppliant,  won't  you?  I'm  not  trying  to  alter 
your  views  one  little  bit.  I'm  only  asking  because  we 
are  really  comrades.  Though  perhaps  you  in  your 
Nietzscheism  won't  admit  that  ?  You  needn't  be  afraid 
that  we  shall  be  too  nice  to  people.  We've  got  to  tell 
too  many  truths  for  that." 

He  handed  her  her  coffee.  "  My  friends  will  like 
you,"  he  said.  "  You're  quite  right,  I  suppose.  Only 
I  can't  see  it  your  way.  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  man  of  action. 
Action  makes  one  narrow.  But  you  won't  persuade 
me,  Mrs.  Drummond.  Doctoring  isn't  done  by  thought." 

"It  is  a  question  of  sowing  so  that  the  future  may 
reap,"  she  said. 

"  The  past  has  never  wished  to  reap,"  he  said.     "  Why 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  69 

should  the  future  ?  Good  comes  as  revolution,  always. 
Christ  comes  as  Anti-Christ,  always.  You  don't  believe 
in  revolution?  " 

"  No/'  she  said.  "  It's  too  like  shooting  the  dealer 
when  you  have  bad  cards.  I  feel  that  a  reform's  only 
lasting  when  it  conies  as  thought,  not  as  brutality." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  whimsically.  "But  aU  thought 
worthy  the  name  seems  pretty  brutal  when  it's  new. 
By  the  way,  I've  got  some  marrons  glacees.  Will  you 
have  a  marron?  I'd  forgotten  I'd  got  marrons." 

Mrs.  Drummond  took  a  marron.  "  A  friend  of  mine 
used  to  say  that  all  essentially  national  things  leave  the 
same  flavour  on  the  mind,  and  that  one  might  just  as 
well  buy  a  marron  glacee  as  a  Fragonard.  Do  you  feel 
like  that?" 

"  No,"  said  Lionel.  "  Were  you  thinking  of  offering 
me  a  rizotto  for  my  picture  ?  " 

"  No,  I  wasn't,"  she  said,  laughing  a  little.  After  a 
second's  pause  she  went  on.  "  Will  you  tell  me,"  she 
asked,  "  about  what  you  are  doing?  Are  you  doing 
any  scientific  work  now?  Or  are  you  writing  of  what 
you  discovered  in  Africa?  " 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  I'm  at  work  on  a  theory.  But 
it's  nothing.  And  the  African  work  was  mostly  done 
by  my  partner.  The  results  are  in  the  press.  It  will 
only  be  a  little  pamphlet,  mostly  diagrams.  Somehow 
everything  seems  to  end  in  a  diagram.  What  shall  we 
say?  Everything  which  won't  go  into  a  diagram  is 
wicked." 

"  It  is  more  philosophic  than  the  theory  of  ten  years 
ago,  '  everything  which  won't  go  into  an  epigram  is 
silly.'  I  think  that  everything  which  is  thoroughly 
understood  resolves  itself  into  a  diagram.  You  get  the 
symbol  of  it.  And  when  you  haven't  got  the  symbol 
of  it,  it's  a  sign  that  you  still  don't  understand  it,  and 
that  it  is,  in  a  way,  f  wicked '  to  you.  Because  things 


70  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

you  don't  understand  have  a  way  of  hurting  you. 
Haven't  they  ?" 

"  Yes.  It's  lucky  so  much  of  life  is  simple.  Under- 
standing is  the  rarest  thing.  Or  rather  the  ripening  of 
understanding  with  the  other  faculties.  Women  under- 
stand. I  feel  a  sort  of  shame  at  this  moment,  to  think 
that  you  are  probably  reading  me  like  a  book.  No. 
Putting  me  into  a  diagram.  While  I  shall  have  to 
sit  alone  here,  and  go  over  all  that  you've  said, 
before  I  begin  to  have  any  glimmering  of  what  you  are. 
Tell  me,  Mrs.  Drummond,  did  you  ever  meet  a  man 
who  '  understood '  women.  I  don't  mean  the  play- 
hero  kind,  who  always  seems  to  be  saying,  '  There. 
There.  I  know  it's  only  your  nerves.'  I  mean  a  man 
with  imaginative  sympathies  tremendously  alive.  A 
woman  always  jumps  one  speech,  if  you  see  what  I 
mean,  in  order  to  get  to  the  one  she  utters.  Did  you 
ever  meet  a  man  who  saw  the  speech  the  woman  jumped, 
and  could  answer  it  off-hand?  Really  speak,  I  mean, 
with  the  woman's  soul  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Drummond. 
"  Yes  I've  met  two  men  who  made  me  feel  that  they 
'  understood.'  One  was  hardly  more  than  a  boy." 

"  What  impression  had  they  on  you?  Do  you  mind 
my  asking?  Was  it  uncanny  to  you ?  " 

"  It  was  strange.  One's  point  of  view  was  accepted, 
and,  as  it  were,  sent  back  glowing.  It  was  like  talking 
with  a  woman.  A  woman  soon  realises  in  life  that  a 
certain  amount  of  selfishness,  or  at  least  of  personal 
assertion,  is  usual  in  a  man.  Often  enough  it  is  that 
which  makes  him  so  wonderful.  And  the  want^of  that 
selfishness,  in  these  two  men,  due  in  both  cases  to  sick- 
ness, made  them  what  they  were,  of  course,  but  it  also 
kept  them  from  being  the  very  finest  things  that  a  man 
may  be." 

"  Living  alone  makes  one  realise  the  pathos  and  the 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  71 

worth  of  women/'  said  Lionel.  "  I've  been  wondering 
about  them,  and  about  us,  too.  Did  you  ever  take  the 
trouble  to  compare  the  politicians  known  to  you  with 
your  woman  friends  ?  " 

"  No.  I  don't  think  I  ever  have,"  she  said.  "  Is  it 
so  instructive?  " 

"  It's  a  difference  of  the  soul.  Think  of  the  women 
one  knows.  One  feels  humble  before  them.  Perhaps 
it's  because  a  woman's  life  is  impossible  without  per- 
sonal idealism.  I  believe  that  two  women  in  Parlia- 
ment would  more  than  double  the  efficacy  of  the  House. 
It  would  be  such  a  jog  to  the  men.  They'd  be  in  the 
presence  of  people  with  ideals.  They'd  feel  themselves 
on  trial." 

"  You  don't  believe  much  in  Parliament?  " 

"  I  realise  that  things  end  there,  Mrs.  Drummond. 
So  I've  a  certain  respect  for  it.  But  it  doesn't  reduce 
itself  to  a  diagram.  It  reminds  me  of  two  companies 
of  buns  flinging  their  currants  at  each  other.  I  suppose 
we're  rather  like  Carthage.  No.  We're  better  than 
that.  No.  I  don't  know  that  we  are.  We're  not  so 
hard.  One  reason  why  they're  like  buns  is  that  they 
yield  so  to  a  little  pressure.  That's  why  you're  making 
a  mistake,  Mrs.  Drummond.  Don't  go  putting  more 
currants  into  them.  But  prick  them  and  stick  them 
and  mark  them  with  G,  and  pop  them  into  the  oven." 

Mrs.  Drummond  rose.  "  I'm  afraid  I  don't  agree," 
she  said.  "  But  I  must  be  going  now.  You'll  come  to 
see  me,  won't  you?  And  bring  your  friends?  I  would 
dearly  like  to  hear  all  about  your  scheme,  even  if  we 
aren't  to  be  allies.  One  gets  such  new  draughts  of  life 
from  all  right  enthusiasm.  One  feels  it  to  be  the  symbol 
of  so  much,  that  lies  beyond  life." 

"  Women  feel  that  more  than  men,"  said  Lionel.  He 
looked  at  her,  wondering  at  woman's  nobleness.  For 
an  instant  the  beauty  of  the  eagerness  in  her  face 


72  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

touched  him  to  awe  and  tenderness.  There  was  more 
than  beauty  in  her.  There  was  the  symbol  of  something 
beyond  life.  He  realised,  for  that  instant,  what  woman 
is.  He  understood  why  Michael  Angelo,  having  done 
all  things,  was  humble  before  the  mute  white  mask  of 
a  woman  lying  dead  there  on  the  bed  in  Florence. 
"  Sentiment/'  said  his  normal  self.  The  something 
destructive  in  his  brain  quickly  arrayed  criticism  against 
her.  "  The  religious  mind  in  woman/'  it  said,  "  is 
Action,  seen  through  sex."  He  would  work  out  the 
epigram  after  she  had  gone.  It  was  something  like 
that.  She  wanted  him  to  fold  his  hands  and  pray 
because  that  was  the  only  way  she  herself  could  get 
things  done.  He  was  not  just  to  her.  His  judgment 
was  warped  by  his  want.  He  wanted  love.  This 
gentle,  wise  priestess  who  disapproved  even  so  mildly 
of  thoughts  which  had  had  harsh  birth  in  him,  in  places 
where  thought  in  itself  was  a  sign  of  manhood,  seemed 
to  him  suddenly  a  little  sentimental  and  insincere.  He 
felt  a  fundamental  antagonism  of  idea. 

Coming  back  from  the  hall  with  her  furs,  this  feeling 
was  brushed  aside  by  the  sense  of  companionship. 
"  Mrs.  Drummond,"  he  said.  "  You're  going  to  protest; 
but  it  will  avail  you  not  at  all.  I  am  coming  all  the 
way  home  to  your  door  with  you.  The  fog's  as  black 
as  ink.  We'll  go  up  Chancery  Lane  to  the  Tube." 
There  were  protestations,  which  he  made  of  none  effect. 
"  In  this  competitive  age,"  he  said,  "  a  fog  is  like  any 
other  suspension.  There  are  attempts  at  a  readjust- 
ment of  distribution.  I'm  not  going  to  have  you  taken 
by  the  throat  and  robbed.  I'm  responsible  for  you. 
Does  fog  affect  your  throat,  Mrs.  Drummond?  Could 
I  lend  you  a  muffler?"  He  placed  the  warm  cloak 
about  her  shoulders,  noticing  again,  as  he  did  so,  the 
wonders  of  her  hair,  and  that  rarest  of  all  rare  beauties, 
never  present,  strangely,  except  with  noble  character, 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  73 

small,  lovely  ears.  He  wondered  how  it  felt  to  be, 
physically,  something  at  once  arresting  and  humbling. 
He  wondered  if  women  with  this  particular  kind  of 
spiritual  beauty  were  ever  troubled,  as  he  was,  by  wants 
which  made  life  difficult.  "  It  is  easy  for  you  women," 
he  thought,  again  unjustly,  not  realising  the  capacity 
for  response  of  the  quivering  fine  nerves  at  tension  to 
-the  plectrum  of  life. 

Outside,  they  were  a  little  staggered  by  the  blackness. 
It  was  darker  than  they  had  ever  known  it.  In  the 
doorway  was  a  luminous  haze.  Beyond,  night.  They 
paused  in  the  doorway.  "  Mrs.  Drummond,"  he  said, 
"  I  brought  a  silk  handkerchief.  I  half  expected  this. 
Let  me  tie  it  over  your  mouth."  She  refused  the  offer, 
with  a  mental  note  of  his  thoughtfulness,  which  she 
afterwards  remembered  and  gauged.  "  How  kind  of 
you  to  see  me  through  this/'  she  said.  "  I  was  afraid, 
all  the  time  we  were  talking."  Often  the  confession  of 
a  weakness  wins  friendship  where  a  display  of  strength 
repels.  He  warmed  to  her.  Here  was  something 
feminine  for  him  to  be  male  to.  They  stepped  forward 
into  the  blackness.  "  Women  aren't  really  afraid,"  he 
said.  "  You  don't  really  fear  anything,  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond.  Isn't  that  it?  Men  fear  things:  women  only 
fear  the  humiliation  caused  by  them.  That's  why 
women  sometimes  don't  foresee  the  humiliation.  The 
cause  may  blind  them.  It  is  an  entirely  different  point 
of  view." 

"  I  like  to  hear  the  law  of  my  being  expounded,"  said 
Mrs.  Drummond,  with  an  invisible  smile.  "  But  I've 
always  heard  that  we  are  rebels."  She  gave  a  little  cry, 
and  almost  fell.  "Are  you  hurt?"  he  said.  "  No, 
thanks,"  she  said.  "  I  only  caught  my  foot  on  the  edge 
of  a  doorstep."  "  Won't  you  take  my  arm,"  he  said. 
"  At  any  rate  till  we're  across  Fleet  Street."  She  took 
his  arm.  They  went  on  together.  He  could  not  see 


74  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

her.  A  light  touch  on  his  arm  alone  told  him  of  her 
presence.  It  was  as  though  these  two  minds  were  walk- 
ing in  some  night  of  the  soul.  In  Fleet  Street,  carriages 
stumbled  on.  Cries  floated  and  answered,  not  like 
words,  not  like  speech:  like  owls,  like  noise  before 
speech  was.  Rumbling  up  out  of  the  night  a  continual 
funeral  loitered  and  rolled.  Men  were  walking  by  their 
horses.  They  talked  with  awe  to  the  policemen.  They 
talked  as  though  some  one  were  dead,  as  though  war 
had  fallen. 

"It  is  rather  wonderful,"  said  Mrs.  Drummond. 
There  was  a  pause  in  the  traffic.  They  slipped  across 
a  buttery  road.  "Your  foot's  not  hurting  you?  " 
Lionel  asked.  No,  the  foot  was  well. 

"  One  would  think,1'  said  Lionel,  "  that  this  kind  of 
thing  would  be  upsetting  to  business." 

"  But  it  is,"  she  said,  not  quite  following  his  mood. 
"  The  loss  is  dreadful." 

"  Why  don't  they  try  to  stop  it,  then,"  said  Lionel. 
"  They  don't.  They  blink  like  the  owls  they  are,  and 
hope  that  '  Government '  will  do  something.  It's  as 
preventable  as  drought." 

"  May  I  give  you  a  good  scolding,  Mr.  Heseltine?  " 
said  Mrs.  Drummond.  "  I  feel  that  you  aren't  being 
just.  We're  in  a  very  interesting  state.  Just  in  the 
last  year  or  two  we've  discovered  that  we  aren't  the 
Breed  and  the  People  which  we  thought  we  were  before 
the  war.  We've  discovered  that  we're  a  very  stupid, 
rude,  idle,  drunken,  and  uneducated  people,  engaged  in 
breeding  incompetents  of  all  classes.  We've  had  our 
waking  up  to  the  reality.  But  do  give  us  credit  for 
waking.  No  other  nation  in  the  world,  so  rich  as  this, 
(  would  ever  have  woken.  And  give  us  credit,  too,  for 
the  tremendous  thing  we  are  in  spite  of  our  faults. 
Even  with  the  worst  of  the  truth  admitted  we're  far 
ahead  of  other  nations.  We  may  be  behind  in  many 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  75 

things.  After  all,  human  nature  has  not  got  very  far 
yet.  But  the  fact  that  we  are  conscious  of  our  wants 
shows  that  we  are  trying  to  remedy  them,  and  that  we 
haven't  lost  our  passion  for  Tightness.  You  and  I  see 
our  faults  too  clearly.  In  our  passion  to  improve  abuses 
we  are  apt  to  forget  how  good  the  main  body  is.  But 
don't  let  us  forget  that.  We  enjoy  a  liberty  and  a 
leisure  which  no  other  nation  in  the  world  has  ap- 
proached even  in  idea.  Do  agree  with  me.  We  are 
all  working  now  to  make  that  liberty  and  leisure  the 
birthright  of  every  Englishman.  And  the  stupid 
people  who  allow  the  fog  to  continue  are  just  the  very 
men  who  have  won  us  the  liberty  and  leisure  to  make 
the  attempt. " 

"  Perfectly  true/1  he  answered.  "  Man's  an  ungrate- 
ful beast.  But  you  get  your  philosophy  from  Athens, 
Mrs.  Drummond.  I  get  mine  from  Germany.  You 
can't  get  over  fifteen  degrees  of  latitude.  What  shall 
I  say?  You  are  full  of  the  warm  South."  They 
entered  the  tube  station. 

In  the  train,  they  could  not  talk  much.  Lionel  kept 
his  brain  alert  with  surmise  as  to  the  characters  of  the 
passengers.  Like  Blake,  a  century  before,  he  found 
"  marks  of  weakness,  marks  of  woe,"  on  each  face  there. 

"  City  life  leaves  a  want  on  each  face,  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond," he  remarked. 

"  I  should  say  that  a  want  leaves  life  in  each  face," 
she  answered,  smiling.  He  smiled;  he  acknowledged 
defeat.  The  train  rattled  and  thundered.  One  had  to 
shout  to  speak.  There  was  no  want  in  her  face,  only  a 
summing  up  of  achievement,  and  that  confident  eager- 
ness for  life  which  was  like  the  spirit  coming  through  the 
flesh.  It  is  strange  how  very  few  look  for  life  in  a  face. 
It  is  sad  how  rare  a  grace  it  is.  Even  vitality  is  scarce: 
but  life,  the  spirit  beyond  vitality,  "  the  lineaments  of 
Gospel  books."  They  came  out  of  the  lift  into  a 


76  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

narrow  road,  in  which  one  could  see  dimly  an  ugly 
church  opposite  the  lights  of  a  flower  shop. 

"  It  is  clearing,"  said  Lionel.  "  Shall  I  call  a  cab? 
You  must  be  so  tired." 

"  I'm  not  at  all  tired,"  she  said.  She  had  the  tact 
not  to  attempt  to  dismiss  him.  "  Let  us  walk  there. 
Or  are  you  tired?  " 

"  I'd  like  to  walk,"  he  said.  "  The  only  drawback  to 
walking  is  that  it's  bad  for  conversation.  Or  do  you 
find  it  easy  to  walk  and  talk?  " 

"  Yes.     You  see.     I'm  a  woman." 

"  Talk  is  a  Londoner's  fresh  air,"  said  Lionel.  "  And 
how  seldom  one  gets  it.  Only  women  talk.  And  to 
talk  really  well  to  a  woman,  one  has  to  be  in  love  with 
another." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  that  was  a  necessity,"  she  said. 
"  Is  it?  The  two  cleverest  talkers  known  to  me 
assuredly  never  loved  anybody,  except  themselves. 
But  good  talk  doesn't  need  cleverness.  It  depends 
on  a  wide  general  sympathy,  don't  you  think?  " 

"  Yes.  Yes,"  he  said  eagerly.  "  Experts  are  the 
worst  possible  talkers.  They  ought  only  to  be  ad- 
mitted like  salt  and  pepper  to  what  ought  to  be  a  dish 
of  manna.  And  all  the  men  one  meets  are  experts. 
They  have  all  the  faults  of  experts.  Each  knows  his 
job  without  knowing  its  philosophy." 

Outside  the  door  of  the  flat,  Lionel  tried  to  take  his 
leave. 

"  You  mustn't  go  till  you've  had  some  tea,"  she  said. 
"  Come  in."  She  bent  to  the  keyhole.  "  The  lock  is 
stiff,  and  my  fingers  are  numb,"  she  said.  "  Would 
you  mind  opening  the  door  for  me?  "  He  was  so  near 
her,  in  the  gloom  of  the  landing,  that  the  faint  vague 
perfume,  which  always  clung  about  her,  moved  him  like 
her  touch  upon  him.  "  Women  ought  not  to  be  allowed 
to  use  scents,"  he  thought,  as  he  entered  the  hall.  The 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  77 

touch  of  her,  as  he  took  her  cloak,  in  the  gloom  of  the 
hall,  humbled  him.  Something  in  the  delicacy  of  the 
dress  was  pathetic.  He  thought  he  saw  her  point  of 
view.  For  a  moment  her  mere  presence  as  woman 
showed  him  how  much  more  she  was. 

In  the  glow  of  the  cosy  room,  they  had  tea  together. 
He  was  drawn  to  her.  She  was  a  very  winsome  winning 
woman.  He  was  more  at  his  ease  sitting  with  her  there. 
He  felt  that  he  was  now  her  guest  and  that  business  and 
propaganda  might  be  forgotten.  The  talk  became 
quick  and  spirited.  He  made  her  laugh.  Her  eyes 
were  full  of  fun  when  she  was  amused;  they  sparkled; 
all  her  face  seemed  to  sparkle.  Six  o'clock  struck. 

"  Good  Lord,"  he  said,  starting.  "  I  say.  Why 
didn't  you  kick  me  out  an  hour  ago?  " 

"  But  I've  enjoyed  my  talk  so  much,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
only  sorry  I  can't  ask  you  to  stop  to  dinner.  But  I've 
got  a  little  singing  class  coming  here." 

"  It  has  been  such  a  joy  to  me  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said. 
"  It's  the  first  real  talk  I've  had  for  more  than  a 
year." 

"  Come  in  always,  when  you're  near  here,"  she 
answered  simply. 

"  Even  if  I  am  not  to  be  your  ally?  " 

"  Yes.  Come  as  salt  or  pepper."  She  gave  her  hand. 
Something  in  her  shook  him.  He  took  her  hand  in  both 
his.  "  I  shall  remember  to-day,"  he  said.  "  It  is  very 
wonderful  to  know  you."  She  was  touched.  He  was 
very  winning  when  he  was  moved.  Afterwards  she 
felt  pity  for  him.  She  had  a  pity  on  all  lonely  souls. 
This  little  soul  was  gracious  as  well  as  lonely.  She, 
too,  was  lonely.  The  memory  of  his  words,  the  physical 
memory  of  his  touch,  seemed  to  her  to  be,  perhaps, 
evidence  of  a  shy  recognition  of  her  loneliness,  a  reach- 
ing out  to  her  spirit.  Her  thought  of  him  that  night 
was  mixed  with  the  wish  that  she  might  keep  him  out 


78  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

of  difficult  paths,  where  his  little  lonely  soul  was  stray- 
ing, scratching  itself  on  the  brambles. 

Lionel  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  lonely  chambers,  wonder- 
ing what  the  devil  she  meant  by  "  coming  as  salt  or 
pepper."  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he  could  be 
one  of  those  who  knew  his  work  without  knowing  its 
philosophy. 


CHAPTER  V 

THEY  met  a  few  days  later.  All  four  lunched  together 
in  Lionel's  room.  London  was  at  its  best  that  day. 
The  sun  shone.  A  cold  blue  sky  sparkled  aloft.  A 
brisk  wind,  with  a  tang,  gave  the  blood  a  fillip,  yet 
failed  to  fling  dust  in  the  eyes.  Who  would  not  be  alive 
on  such  a  day?  Life  went  roaring  past  almost  gladly. 
The  houses  took  on  beauty.  The  river  gleamed  blue. 
The  churches  gleamed. 

Atmospheric  pressure  influences  life  more  than 
people  think.  We  consist  mainly  of  salt  and  water. 
Wet  and  the  Sun  play  Old  Harry  with  us.  To  Lionel, 
who  was,  perhaps,  mainly  salt,  since  he  had  a  passion 
for  the  Sun,  such  a  day  was  like  a  personal  compliment. 
And  the  thought  that  that  day  would  bring  him  his 
friends,  and  that  Mrs.  Drummond  would  give  him  her 
hand  again,  and  that  the  grand  campaign  would  begin, 
made  him  rise  early  to  play  Gliick,  while  Mrs.  Holder, 
in  her  print,  lit  the  fire  and  dusted. 

Often,  on  a  good  day,  things  conspire  to  flatter  us. 
Pleasant  letters  come  by  the  post.  Friends  are  unex- 
pectedly sympathetic.  Good  news  comes.  It  is  as 
though  the  individual  became  suddenly  an  important 
note  in  life's  symphony,  God's  finger  touches  it  sc 
often.  If  we  keep  keen,  as  women  do,  with  their  bright, 
clear  minds,  a  letter  and  a  fine  day  will  tax  the  soul's 
power  of  joy  quite  as  surely  as  those  strong  drugs,  love 
and  war.  All  things  conspired  on  this  day  to  make 
Lionel  joyous.  The  day,  the  prospect,  and  the  post. 
He  received  a  big  mail. 

Only  those  who  have  lived  in  exile,  or  in  the  loneliness 
79 


8o  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

of  a  big  town,  can  know  the  pleasure  of  letters.  They 
add  a  grace  to  life  not  to  be  understood  by  the  fully  fed, 
or  drugged.  They  are  all  that  life  has  withheld,  com- 
panionship, tenderness,  unselfishness.  One  of  Lionel's 
letters  was  from  Miss  Dora  Plunket  asking  him  to  make 
a  four,  to  dine  that  night  at  the  Tuesday  Club.  Would 
ne  please  wire  if  he  could  come.  He  telegraphed  that 
he  would  be  delighted.  His  loneliness  was  being  lifted 
from  him.  He  had  now  before  him  an  entire  day  of 
companionship  and  lively  personal  interest.  He  turned 
to  his  piano  after  breakfast  to  wrestle  with  Schumann's 
"  Carnival."  It  seemed  for  the  moment  to  be  less  im- 
portant that  the  campaign  should  be  militant,  than 
that  all  should  be  brothers  together.  He  had  not 
known  such  spirits  for  more  than  a  year.  The  welcome 
of  his  friends  was  the  crown  of  the  morning's  pleasure. 
They  were  glad  to  see  him.  Naldrett  with  his  gay, 
quiet  humour,  Fawcett  with  his  smile,  and  mild  kind 
clever  face,  beaming  behind  glasses,  Mrs.  Drummond 
flushed  with  the  day  to  a  health  which  brightened  the 
life  near  her.  They  lunched  together  there.  Lunch 
went  with  a  sparkle  like  the  day.  Mrs.  Drummond's 
radiance  was  like  wine  upon  them.  It  was  one  of  her 
rarer  days  too.  She  was  living  in  the  depths  of  her 
gentle  being.  Life  was  thrilling  in  her.  She  was 
touched  to  such  fineness,  on  so  many  sides  of  her,  by 
the  day's  happy  accidents,  that  something  of  her  very 
spirit,  a  glow,  a  delicacy  from  her,  made  life  a  memor- 
able thing  for  all  who  spoke  with  her.  Woman  is  a 
choicer  creature  than  man.  Her  delicate  nerves  when 
they  are  touched  with  the  delight  of  life,  are  touched 
to  the  consideration  of  life  itself,  not,  as  with  man,  to 
the  practice  of  the  affairs  of  life.  So,  now  the  delight 
of  Mrs.  Drummond,  brought  to  her  by  each  sensitive 
nerve,  alive  in  joy,  grew  in  her  heart  as  a  love  of  all 
nobleness,  with  a  perhaps  not  worded  prayer  that  the 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  81 

joy  so  given  by  the  accident  of  life  might  not  be 
communicated  unless  nobly.  Woman  has  every  noble 
power  in  perhaps  more  noble  measure  than  man,  who 
denies  her  permission  to  apply  her  power  to  the  better- 
ing of  what  he  has  bungled.  From  this  denial  it  has 
come  to  pass  that  only  the  ignoble  powers  in  woman 
have  had  complete  scope  in  human  affairs.  Woman, 
forbidden  to  apply  her  power,  has  been  forced  either 
to  trick  and  cheat,  or  to  remain  without  power.  The 
woman  of  our  time  has  that  old  heritage,  the  ghosts 
of  her  ancestresses  ranged  against  her  in  man's  mind. 
She,  whose  life  is  pure  fire,  referring  all  things  to  the 
stern  and  splendid  tests  of  fire,  has  to  guard  heart  and 
lips  among  us,  because  a  creature  once  went  slinking, 
hectic  with  rouge,  in  the  old  gilded  foyers  of  sentiment 
and  sensuality. 

After  lunch,  they  sat  round  the  fire  to  talk.  Mrs. 
Drummond  nearest  to  the  blaze,  with  the  glow  on  her 
cheek,  Naldrett  opposite  to  her,  Fawcett  next  to  her. 
Lionel  sat  between  the  two  men,  pushed  a  little  back 
out  of  the  circle.  In  his  sudden  flush  of  spirits  he  was 
thinking  that  he  would  be  able  to  convert  all  these  three 
to  his  own  way  of  thinking.  He  felt  his  power  over 
what  is  merely  sentimental  and  idealistic.  Incidentally 
he  noted  the  flush  and  sparkle  on  Mrs.  Drummond's 
face.  He  crossed  over  to  her,  while  the  others  talked. 
Stooping  to  her,  he  asked  if  he  might  get  her  a  screen. 
She  refused  it,  with  that  smile  of  pleasure  which  made 
the  pleasing  her  even  in  a  little  matter  so  wonderful. 
The  question,  trivial  as  it  was,  really  pleased  her  deeply. 
She  had  seen  Lionel  at  his  best,  throughout  lunch.  The 
little  act  of  deference,  or  rather  something  spiritual  in 
his  voice  at  the  moment,  made  her  feel  that  they  were 
not  such  spiritual  strangers  after  all. 

"  Have  you  been  hearing  anything  of  our  scheme, 


82  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Mrs.  Drummond?"  said  Leslie  Fawcett,  picking  his 
words  till  his  glasses  were  correctly  poised.  "  Has 
my  cousin  been  telling  you  about  it?  " 

"  Yes/'  she  said,  "  I've  been  discussing  it  with  him." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it?  "  said  Leslie.  "  I  would 
like  to  know  what  you  think  of  it.  For  in  the  last  week 
we've  been  threatened  with  a  defection/' 

"  Do  you  mean  Mr.  Heseltine?  "  she  asked,  glancing 
at  Lionel  with  a  smile. 

"  No,  I  think  my  cousin's  sound." 

"  What,  has  Roger  gone  back  on  us?  "  said  Lionel. 
"  Shoot  the  traitor.  Drum  him  out." 

"  It's  like  this,"  said  Naldrett.  All  looked  at  him. 
He  stared  straight  in  front  of  him  into  Mrs.  Drummond's 
eyes.  There  was  a  moral  defiance  in  his  tone.  His 
look  was  that  of  one  shrewdly  sensitive  to  the  measure 
of  his  hearer's  sympathies.  "  It's  like  this.  You  see. 
We  went  into  this  scheme,  convinced  that  what  the  age 
wants  is  something  to  make  life  less  hideous  and  less 
wasteful.  We  planned,  I  think,  to  start  an  organisa- 
tion to  teach  men  how  to  apply  science  to  life.  That 
was  it,  wasn't  it,  Lionel?  " 

"  That  was  something  like  it,"  said  Lionel.  "  Near 
enough  for  a  poet.  Go  on,  sir." 

"  I'Ve  been  reading  the  papers  about  these  Suffrage 
women,"  he  said,  "  you  know,"  he  added,  flushing  as 
his  emotions  warmed,  "  those  women  are  heroic.  And 
men  are  treating  them  in  a  way  which — well,  there  it 
is.  Here  are  these  ladies  being  absolutely  heroic.  I 
don't  say  their  methods  are  always  right.  Sometimes 
I  think  they're  ill-judged.  But  when  you  think  of 
what  a  woman's  life  is  in  England,  and  how  these 
women  have  been  brought  up,  and  what  they  face,  and 
what  they  suffer,  good  Lord,  one  ought  to  kneel  to  them. 
A  woman  told  me  the  other  day  that  at  one  of  their 
meetings  in  the  Midlands,  men  rushed  the  platform, 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  83 

and  mobbed  the  women,  and  spat  at  them.  It  seems 
to  me  that  all  the  evils  in  modern  life  spring  directly 
from  the  absence  of  women  in  the  government.  They 
are  just  the  evils  that  aren't  in  men's  line  of  pain.  Men 
die  of  phthisis  and  are  buried.  That's  an  end.  But 
women  are  bearing  children  in  squalor  and  the  children 
are  growing  up  in  squalor,  and  there  is  no  end.  Only  a 
growing,  spreading,  ghastly  degradation  of  life,  for  men, 
who  allow  it,  and  for  women  and  children  who  suffer 
from  it.  Lord  God,  there  is  no  end."  He  was  up  on 
his  feet,  talking  excitedly,  glaring  into  any  eyes  he 
happened  to  catch  at  the  moment.  "  I  say  that  we 
ought  to  be  helping  women  to  their  place  in  govern- 
ment, so  that  there  may  be  an  end.  We've  got  together 
a  little  money,  and  we've  got  a  little  energy.  Let's  use 
them  to  get  women  the  vote.  Now  I'm  going  to  be 
personal.  Look  at  Mrs.  Drummond,  there.  Could  you 
imagine  a  greater  evil  than  that  women  like  Mrs. 
Drummond  can  have  less  share  in  the  government 
than  the  lout  in  the  gin  palace?  I've  been  thinking 
things  over.  There's  a  greater  need  for  women  beside 
men,  helping  men,  than  for  what  we  talked  of  in  Ire- 
land the  other  night."  He  sat  down,  feeling  the  fire 
ebb  from  his  mind.  He  trembled  a  little.  He  glanced 
from  face  to  face  wondering  if  he  had  made  a  fool  of 
himself.  Mrs.  Drummond  was  smiling.  She  was 
pleased.  Lionel  vaguely  glancing  from  face  to  face, 
was  trying  to  see  how  far  underneath  his  chair  one  long 
lean  foot,  in  a  hide  slipper  and  a  cabin-knitted  sock, 
could  be  forced,  without  fracture  of  the  bone;  Leslie, 
who  had  taken  off  his  glasses  in  order  to  rub  his  fingers 
along  the  spring,  was  now  peering  up  at  the  Correggio 
through  them.  He  looked  unnatural,  like  a  barrister 
in  court  expecting  a  voice  from  heaven.  He  was  the 
first  to  speak.  "  Yes,"  he  said.  "  It's  a  question  which 
ought  to  be  discussed.  The  question  is  how  far  it  would 


84  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

be  possible,  I  mean  how  far  the  women  themselves — 
setting  aside  the  rights  of  their  case.  And  then.  Better- 
ing the  world  is  all  very  well,  but  aren't  politics  rather  a 
broadening  of  our  plan?  It's  a  question,  isn't  it,  how 
far  it  will  be  wise  to  mix  what  is,  or  ought  to  be,  purely 
theoretic,  or,  if  you  like,  didactic,  with  the  militant 
and  reformatory?  A  laboratory,  which  would  give 
advanced  scientific  experimentalists  the  means  of  re- 
search, and  a  paper  which  would  enable  them  to  state 
their  views,  would  be  more  likely  really  to  fulfil  a 

national  want,  than "  He  hesitated.  "  I  mean," 

he  went  on,  "  setting  aside  the  question  of  right  and 
wrong,  let  us  consider  what  we  are  most  competent  to 
carry  out."  He  looked  at  Naldrett  and  at  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond.  He  thrust  back  his  chair  a  couple  of  feet. 
"  What  do  you  think  about  it,  Lionel?"  he  asked. 
Lionel  looked  at  Mrs.  Drummond  as  though  expecting 
her  to  speak.  He  smiled  at  her.  "  Mrs.  Drummond," 
he  said,  "  I  see  you're  going  to  win.  As  for  you,  Roger, 
you're  a  base  betrayer.  Let's  hear  some  more  schemes. 
I  don't  much  mind  what  I  do  to  help  the  world,  as  long 
as  it's  something  vigorous.  But  you  people  jump  from 
science  to  politics,  as  though  you  would  never  tackle 
anything.  You've  heard  Roger.  Now  hear  Mrs. 
Drummond.  She  is  for  strengthening  Public  Health 
authorities  and  putting  an  end  to  charity." 

"  Charity  is  the  last,"  said  Naldrett.  "  The  death- 
bed sensuality." 

"  It  blesses  him  that  gives,"  said  Lionel,  "  and 
enables  him  that  takes  to  take  more.  Generally  in  a 
dark  lane,  when  you're  alone." 

"  I  belong  to  the  movement  for  strengthening  the 
Public  Health  authorities,"  Mrs.  Drummond  said.  "  I 
thought,  from  what  I  heard  that  you  were  aiming  at 
something  very  like  that.  As  you  were  saying,  Mr. 
Heseltine,  we  want  a  Public  Health  authority  with  as 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  85 

much  power  to  prevent  disease  as  a  man-of-war  captain 
has  to  prevent  mutiny.  I  hoped  that  if  you  were  going 
to  work  on  those  lines  you  would  let  my  friends  know, 
so  that  there  should  be  no  overlapping/' 

"  Whatever  we  do/'  said  Lionel,  "  whatever  anybody 
does,  he  must  first  upset  something  fat  and  sleepy  which 
has  had  its  use.  That's  a  natural  law.  Things  are  in  a 
mess.  Leslie  thinks  they  can  be  improved  by  pointing 
out  the  way.  You  think  they  can  be  improved  by 
giving  women  the  vote.  Mrs.  Drummond  thinks  they 
can  be  improved  by  the  reform  of  the  Poor  Law.  I'm 
not  going  to  waste  my  strength  trying  to  convert  three 
enthusiasts,  for  all  enthusiasm  is  perfectly  right,  as  far 
as  it  goes.  If  my  life  would  give  women  the  vote  or 
reform  the  Poor  Law  I'd  give  it.  Would  I?  Wait  a 
minute.  Would  I?  No.  I  doubt  if  I  would.  I'd 
want  to  see  what  Mrs.  Drummond  would  do.  Well. 
Any  way.  Where  was  I?  About  things  being  in  a 
mess.  What's  wanted  is  some  jolly  big  reform.  It's 
not  giving  women  the  vote.  It's  not  reforming  the 
Poor  Law.  What  the  State  wants  is  complete  control 
of  the  life  within  it,  in  the  interests  of  humanity.  No- 
body cares  a  twopenny  rush  for  humanity  except  the 
scientist.  The  landlord  doesn't.  Look  at  him.  He's 
the  choicest  incompetent  we  breed.  The  soldier  doesn't. 
He  only  wants  a  war  and  conscription.  The  sailor 
doesn't.  What  does  the  sailor  want?  A  wife  in  every 
port  and  rum  out  of  bond.  The  parson  doesn't.  He 
wants  mankind  in  bearing  reins.  The  lawyer  doesn't. 
Law  is  like  morphia.  It  makes  one  forget  that  its  use 
is  to  lessen  suffering.  The  merchant  doesn't.  He's  out 
for  profits.  The  member  of  Parliament  doesn't.  He's 
absorbed  in  his  party.  The  peer  of  the  realm  doesn't. 
Peers  are  made  incapable  of  wisdom  by  their  breeding 
and  their  interbreeding. 

"  It's  time  the  farce  stopped.     What  we  four  ought 


86  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

to  do  is  to  stop  it.  Come  on.  Let's  stop  it.  Let's 
shoot  the  whole  jolly  lot,  and  put  the  scientist  there. 
The  man  who  really  cares  about  life.  Then  you'll  get 
all  your  reforms,  not  one  alone.  What  do  you  say?  " 

"  You  think  that  what  you  propose  is  practical, 
Lionel?  "  Leslie  asked. 

"  Practical?  Of  course  it  is.  It  would  make  earth 
paradise.  Practical,  I  don't  say.  I  don't  see  man 
welcoming  paradise  in  the  shape  I'd  bring  it.  Resist? 
He'll  resist  like  an  army  mule.  Man  resists  medicine 
from  the  time  he's  two.  But  if  a  man  has  strength 
enough  to  conceive  a  possible  political  good,  he  is  strong 
enough  to  enforce  it  on  his  fellows." 

"  How?  "  said  Naldrett,  "  How  would  you  enforce  a 
scheme  like  this?  " 

"  How  is  anything  enforced  ?  "  Lionel  asked.  "  People 
once  fought  for  ideas.  Now  they  fight  for  catch- 
words, reason  being  scarcer,  and  enthusiasm  easier 
to  rouse.  I  would  bring  this  about  by  creating  an 
enthusiasm.  And  every  way  of  rousing  enthusiasm  is 
legitimate  to  a  man  in  earnest,  working  for  the  good  of 
the  race." 

Leslie  laughed  a  little,  gently.  He  was  examining 
his  glasses  carefully,  as  though  they  were  Lionel's 
proposition.  "  My  dear  Lionel,"  he  said.  He  replaced 
his  glasses  on  his  nose.  "  And  how,"  he  asked,  "  do 
you  propose  to  upset  all  this  fabric?  Without  civil 
war?"  He  looked  liker  a  judge  than  ever.  Lionel 
twisted  in  his  chair  to  face  him. 

"  First,"  he  said,  "  I  call  Mrs.  Drummond  to  witness 
that  this  is  no  longer  a  fabric.  It  was  one,  but  that 
was  long  ago.  There  are  a  few  men  trying  to  make  it 
a  new  one  in  accordance  with  new  ideas.  There  are  a 
few  more  trying  to  varnish  up  the  wreck  from  without, 
so  that  they  may  scoop  a  little  more  from  inside  before 
the  cracks  are  noticed.  As  for  fabric?  No.  There's 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  87 

a  powder  magazine.  And  there's  a  good  deal  of  flint, 
and  a  little  steel,  all  lying  handy.  You  think  there' d 
be  a  row  if  we  tried  this  ?  " 

"  Yes.  The  country's  full  of  idleness  and  empty  of 
thought/' 

"  Leslie.  I  believe  that  in  five  years'  time  we  could 
bring  this  thing  through  without  a  row.  When  I  say 
a  row  I  mean  actual  physical  revolution.  The  whole 
trend  of  modern  life  has  been  to  create  a  society  so 
utterly  without  healthy  outlets,  that  it's  at  the  mercy 
of  the  first  man  who  gives  its  hysteria  direction.  All 
the  intelligence  is  in  the  cities.  All  the  cities  respond 
like  fire  to  a  little  blowing.  I  believe  that  rightly 
worked,  the  hysteria  of  modern  cities  might  be  made 
the  greatest  revolutionary  force  the  world  has  ever 
seen.  You've  seen  it  badly  worked,  to  bad  ends,  your- 
self. You've  seen  it  used  to  make  the  war.  What  was 
done  there?  A  few  ruffians  bought  a  news  agency, 
and  used  the  press  as  a  bellows.  Result.  The  war. 
England  disgraced.  Social  Reform  hung  up  for  a 
decade.  With  every  prospect  of  nemesis  in  the  near 
future.  Mrs.  Drummond,  I  know  you  think  I'm  un- 
scrupulous. I'm  not.  I  see  the  whole  party  with 
ideas  splitting  up  into  a  lot  of  little  Dorcas  groups,  and 
mothers'  meetings  I  want  to  unite  all  the  little  groups 
into  one  big  party  with  a  grand,  constructive  policy 
which  will  settle  all  the  little  points  as  a  matter  of 
course  in  settling  the  big  one.  I  want  you  all  to  join 
me." 

"  Will  you  use,  as  you  call  it,  the  press  as  a  bellows  ?  " 
Mrs.  Drummond  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  Certainly." 

"  I  think  you're  so  frightfully  wrong,"  she  said. 
"  People  who  fan  up  agitation  in  the  press  either  work 
in  the  dark,  not  knowing  what  they  are  doing,  or  work 
cynically,  without  regard  for  what  they're  doing.  The 


88  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

press  is  a  dreadful  power,  and  the  way  it  works  is  always 
obscure.  And — "  She  stopped,  wondering  if  she  might 
say  all  that  she  wished.  "  Really,  Mr.  Heseltine,"  she 
said,  "  what  you  calllthe  hysteria  of  modern  cities  is  a 
very  awful  thing.  It  is  not  a  creative  thing.  It  is 
something  quite  ignoble  and  destructive.  You  want  to 
fan  it  up  to  destroy  existing  laws,  so  that  you  may  crush 
it  out  under  laws  ten  times  as  rigorous.  I  Isn't  that  what 
your  scheme  amounts  to  ?  "  She  was  smiling. 

"  Something  like  that.  But  give  me  credit  for  a  little 
tenderness  in  the  handling.  And  one  never  realises  all 
one's  dream.  This  isn't  Utopia.  What  do  you  think, 
Leslie?" 

"  I  think  that  what  you  want  might  look  very  pretty 
in  a  book,"  said  Leslie.  "  But  politics  have  nothing  to 
do  with  welfare,  Lion.  Liberal  politics  deal  with  the 
control  of  certain  interests.  Tory  politics  with  their 
promotion.  That  is  about  all  they  attempt.  I  don't 
even  see  that  what  you  urge  would  be  a  good  thing. 
The  stamping  out  of  disease  might,  for  all  we  know,  be 
a  very  fatal  thing.  We  don't  know  what  disease  is. 
That,  of  course,  is  begging  the  question.  Your  real 
weakness  is  this.  You  aim  at  establishing  a  very  real 
tryanny  in  order  to  establish  a  very  doubtful  good. 
And  you  forget  that  your  electorate  consists  of  the 
healthy.  It  is  one  of  the  signs  of  health,  that  it  is 
unable  to  imagine  disease.  We  are  a  pretty  healthy 
race.  That  is  why  we  imagine  forms  of  health;  dull 
forms  if  you  like,  profits,  interests,  and  the  rest  of  it. 
And  that  is  why  we  can't  imagine  a  sane  system  of 
dealing  with  destitution.  We  eat  too  much.  Do  you 
suppose  that  you'll  get  an  electorate  interested  in 
bacillicides  and  the  care  of  teething  babies?  Those 
are  side-shows.  The  circus  consists  of  dinner,  purse, 
to  some  extent  wife  ("women's  sphere  is  the  home"), 
and  the  injustice,  more  or  less  bloody,  which  wins 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  89 

applause  at  the  moment.  Whatsoever  is  more  than 
these  cometh  (people  say)  of  Socialism.  You'll  get 
severely  jumped  on.  And  if  you  persist,  I'm  afraid 
you'll  make  such  a  big  scandal  that  you  may  put  back 
really  great,  imperative  reforms  for  a  number  of  years. 
That  is  what  I'm  afraid  you  haven't  weighed." 

"You  won't  join  me  in  this?  Not  even  if  1 
assure  you  that  I  mean  to  go  into  it  earnestly  and 
scrupulously?  " 

"  No.  It's  wrong.  It's  founded  on  a  misconception. 
I  won't  join  you.  Get  your  reform  by  enlightenment. 
I'd  join  you  in  that.  Wouldn't  you,  Mrs.  Drummond? 
A  campaign  to  teach  cleanliness  and  godliness.  But 
you're  so  dangerous  when  you  get  an  idea.  Every  idea 
you  get  is  a  declaration  of  war  with  the  rest  of  the  world. 
We  must  keep  to  our  original  plan." 

"  And  you,  Roger  ?     Roger  my  last  hope." 

"  It's  no  good,"  said  Roger.  "  Or  rather  it  is  very 
good.  But  isn't  it  the  sort  of  thing  which  you'll  get 
gradually  without  working,  by  introducing  other  lesser, 
more  pressing  things.  If  you  got  women  the  vote. 
I'm  supposing  now  that  you're  omnipotent.  You're 
not,  but  you  make  a  superb  imitation.  If  you  got 
women  the  vote,  it  seems  to  me  that  politics  would 
become,  at  once,  much  more  concerned  with  '  welfare/ 
while  the  '  interests  '  would  tend  to  get  shelved.  It's 
hard  to  say,  though.  Outside  our  own  little  band, 
where  the  women  are  so  splendid,  there's  a  great  multi- 
tude of  reactionaries.  The  ordinary  English  lady  is 
every  bit  as  narrow  as  her  husband.  She's  nicer  to 
look  at,  and  has  better  manners,  but  I  think  an  Irish 
laundry-maid  has  wider  sympathies.  Still,  it  is  the  best 
kind,  our  kind,  who  would  use  the  power.  And  they 
are  far  finer  than  men.  They're  something  men  can't 
approach  on  any  plane.  And  politics  will  have  more 
of  a  soul  in  them  when  women  of  that  kind  are  engaged 


9o  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

in  them.  And  when  that  happens  life  will  seem  so 
much  fuller  to  most  people  that  they'll  come  to  your 
point  of  view  naturally.  No  big  reform  like  this  can 
come  at  once,  without  a  Napoleon.  And  you're  not  a 
Napoleon,  even  in  your  looking-glass.  I  say  this. 
Move  heaven  and  earth  to  get  a  more  practical  legis- 
lative assembly.  " 

"  The  trouble  with  this  age,"  said  Lionel,  "  is  that  its 
men  are  too  fond  of  two  things,  business  and  pleasure. 
It  has  left  thought  to  women.  Women  can't  think; 
but  they  sugar  the  brains  of  every  man  who  can.  Ask 
any  thinker  of  this  generation  who  his  disciples  are. 
All  women.  And  as  a  result,  thought  now  is  purely 
feminine.  In  many  ways  it's  a  good  thing.  Civilisa- 
tion's getting  to  be  a  very  fine  thing,  and  it  is  demanding 
finer  measures.  But  below  the  civilisation  (and  I 
suppose  there  are  not  more  than  thirty  thousand 
civilised  people  now  in  Europe),  there  is  a  rabble  which 
is  getting  to  be  a  very  terrible  thing.  And  it's  the 
humanity  of  that  rabble  which  concerns  me.  There  is 
no  alternative  platform.  Women  ought  to  have  the 
vote.  I  know  that.  Women  ought  to  have  had  the 
vote  when  Queen  Victoria  came  to  the  throne.  Destitu- 
tion ought  to  be  stopped.  I  know  that.  Destitution 
ought  to  have  been  stopped  fifty  years  ago.  Both 
reforms  are  necessary.  They're  very  beautiful.  They're 
very  fine.  But  they're  the  reforms  of  a  society  whose 
thought  has  become  feminine.  And  I  quarrel  with 
them  because  the  methods  of  your  thirty  thousand  are 
not  the  methods  of  this  world  I  stick  to  my  own 
scheme." 

"  Might  we  discuss  your  methods  in  detail?  "  Mrs. 
Drummond  asked.  She  felt  that  the  situation  was 
getting  strained.  Leslie  glanced  at  Lionel  with  some 
anxiety.  Lionel  gloomed  at  Mrs.  Drummond,  and 
then  stared  despondently  at  the  fire.  "  Methods,"  he 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  91 

said,  not  without  a  shade  of  irritation.  "  I  don't 
believe  methods  matter  as  long  as  you're  in  earnest." 

"  You  don't  believe  that,  really,"  she  said,  feeling 
vexed  and  sorry  at  the  same  time.  "  Men  love  truth  ex- 
actly as  they  love  women.  The  method  is  everything." 

He  looked  at  her.     He  was  touched  by  her  gentleness. 

"  It's  not  a  case  of  love,"  he  said.  "  I  see  a  dunghill 
in  the  street,  and  I  believe  that  at  the  bottom  of  it  there 
may  be  some  building  material.  When  I  get  to  the 
building  material,  I'll  act  like  a  builder.  Till  then, 
I'll  brandish  any  muck-rake  that's  got  good  teeth." 

Leslie  rose  to  his  feet,  laughing  a  little.  "  My  dear 
Lion,"  he  said.  He  rested  his  fingers  on  the  mantel 
and  stared  up  at  the  Correggio.  He  touched  the  glass 
with  a  delicate  finger  tip.  "  It  seems  to  me  to  be 
bloomed  a  little,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know,  though. 
Ha.  Yes.  It  is.  It  wants  a  touch.  You  ought  to 
send  it  to  Bondini's  in  Suffolk  Street." 

"  We  aren't  getting  on  very  fast,"  said  Roger. 

"  We're  split  on  the  rocks  we  came  to  blast,  it  seems 
to  me,"  said  Lionel.  "  Well.  Well.  Let's  have  some 
tea.  You'll  have  some  tea,  Mrs.  Drummond?  Ring 
the  bell,  Roger,  and  let's  have  some  tea.  Let's  destroy 
our  nerves  if  we  can't  destroy  anything  else." 

During  tea,  Leslie  tried  to  make  a  way  for  reconcilia- 
tion. 

"  We've  made  a  rather  grave  mistake,"  he  said,  "  to 
come  to  this  discussion  so  soon  after  our  first  talk.  In 
a  first  talk,  one  takes  too  rosy  a  view.  Then,  after  a 
few  days,  one  takes  too  black  a  view.  And  then,  after 
a  few  days  more,  one  comes  to  something  logical  in 
between.  Let's  wait  a  few  days  and  meet  again." 

"  Oh,  Leslie,"  said  Lionel,  "  I  can't  go  into  it  all 
again.  I've  shoved  my  silly  soul  on  to  the  hearthrug 
there,  and  you've  all  said  it  was  aniline  dyed.  It's  done 
with.  We  can't  work  together.  I  didn't  think  we 


92  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

could  when  we  talked  of  it  in  Ireland.  I  don't  know, 
though.  I'm  a  tactless  ass.  You  don't  take  sugar, 
Mrs.  Drummond?  No  sugar?  Will  you  have  some 
lemon?  You  can  always  tell  people  with  intellect. 
They  all  drink  China  tea,  generally  without  sugar. 
Roger  was  an  exception;  he  drank  nothing  but 
absinthe;  but  then  he  was  one  of  these  literary  men. 
Do  you  belong  to  the  Tuesday  Club,  Roger?  " 

"  No/'  said  Roger.  "  That's  an  absinthey  gang. 
Are  you  joining?  " 

"  No.  I've  got  to  dine  there  to-night.  And  I  was 
wondering  what  sort  the  members  are." 

"  I  used  to  go  there,  sometimes.  They're  still  in  the 
late  nineties.  They're  very  feverish,  and  rather  scented. 
They're  rather  in  a  backwash,  if  you  know  what  I  mean, 
and  they  don't  quite  know  it,  because  twelve  or  thirteen 
years  ago  they  were  in  the  mid-stream.  They're  quite 
decayed.  They  were  merely  sensualists,  and  the 
sensualist,  grown  old,  is  a  sentimentalist  inclined  to 
Rome  and  barley  water.  They  had  all  the  lusts,  even 
the  lust  for  cruelty,  for  blood.  You  remember  how 
they  lusted  for  blood.  They've  got  no  lusts,  now,  only 
nerves.  Some  of  them  have  quite  nice  taste.  But 
they  belong  to  the  decade  of  the  short  story,  which  is  a 
Latin  thing,  a  sort  of  whet  like  an  olive  or  an  anchovy. 
We  belong  to  the  decade  of  the  drama,  which  is  an 
English  thing,  and  lasts  till  midnight.  You  won't  like 
the  Tuesday  Club.  Have  you  noticed,  Mrs.  Drummond, 
how  literature  has  changed  since  Meredith  became 
popular?  The  old  ideal  was  this  or  that,  but  it  was 
without  a  spirit.  It  had  body  and  senses,  and  some- 
times a  mind;  but  not  a  spirit.  Meredith  has  left  us 
all  in  a  hopeless  passion  for  the  spirit.  Authors  used  to 
love  their  heroines  for  their  beauty.  Now  they  love 
them  for  the  something  beyond.  There  are  no  women, 
now,  Only  Beatrices." 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  93 

"Some  more  tea,  Mrs.  Drummond?"  said  Lionel. 
Under  his  breath,  he  growled  out  something  derisive 
about  a  sentimental  ass.  He  poured  the  tea,  wondering 
how  long  Naldrett  would  remain  single.  Or  would  he 
become  a  woman's  friend  ?  So  many  clever  young  men 
become  women's  friends.  Generally  in  these  friend- 
ships the  women  are  much  older  than  the  men.  In- 
timacy of  any  kind  has  a  beautiful  side.  But  an 
intimacy  of  this  kind  can  only  be  very  beautiful 
between  genuine  people.  Otherwise,  it  is  a  half  measure, 
sentimental  on  the  one  side,  selfish  on  the  other,  a  kind 
of  limbo,  liable  always  to  become  hell,  when  something 
real  occurs  to  either  participant.  Naldrett  was  of  too 
passionate  a  type  to  become  a  woman's  last  pathetic 
hold  on  her  failing  charm.  Lionel  wondered  if  the 
young  man  would  fall  at  Mrs.  Drummond's  feet.  He 
seemed  to  be  impressed  by  her.  It  might  be  a  good 
thing  for  him.  She  would  probably  marry  him  off  to 
some  nice  clever  woman  of  thirty-five,  with  glasses,  and 
a  good  French  accent.  Somehow  the  thought  made 
him  a  little  jealous  of  Roger.  Roger  would  never  want 
an  asylum  for  his  affections.  With  his  usual  generosity 
in  intellectual  things  he  began  to  interest  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond  in  Roger. 

"  Roger,"  he  said,  "I  forgot  to  tell  you,  I've  been 
reading  your  play,  I  think  it's  very  fine.  Have  you 
read  it,  Mrs.  Drummond?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  is  this  Mr.  Naldrett's  Egyptian 
King  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  must  read  it.  As  a  rule  I  think  romance 
is  the  most  dangerous  of  all  the  spiritual  temptations, 
because  it's  so  false,  and  so  beautiful;  but  you've  done 
this  so  cleverly,  Roger,  that  one  feels  something  universal 
behind  the  beauty.  There's  only  one  thing  which  I 
don't  quite  see.  What  is  your  symbol  of  the  moon- 
rise?  I  felt  that  you  hadn't  quite  worked  that  out." 


94  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Roger  was  very  pleased  at  all  this  praise.  He 
blushed  and  smiled  and  looked  at  his  boots. 

"  Oh,  the  n.oon-rise,"  he  said.  "  It  was  to  mark  the 
beginning  of  th^  4nfluence  of  the  merely  watery  imagi- 
nation, which  i:  governed  by  the  moon.  You  see  my 
four  characters  are  the  four  elements  in  the  mind,  and 
they  are  all  represented  externally,  if  you'll  remember, 
by  external  symbols." 

Leslie  came  sauntering  back  from  the  window  with 
his  cup.  "  Is  this  the  Egyptian  King  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I 
think  it's  very  beautiful,  Roger.  But  why  do  you  put 
your  picture  so  far  back?  I  think  that  what  I  feel 
about  it  is  that  Egypt  is  a  little  remote." 

"  Remote,"  said  Lionel.  "  Remote  be  shot.  Life  is 
what  it  was  four  thousand  years  ago.  Think  a  little. 
Nothing  has  happened  since  Rome,  except  the  Shrapnel 
Shell.  Where  did  I  put  my  copy?  Here  it  is.  «  You 
must  take  it  with  you  and  read  it,  Mrs.  Drummond. 
You'll  like  it." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  glancing  curiously  at  the 
cover.  "  I  shall  read  it  to-night.  Now  I  must  be 
going."  She  stood  up,  and  shook  hands  with  the  two 
men.  Roger  looked  at  her  wistfully,  hoping  that  she 
would  give  him  some  chance  of  seeing  her  again. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  come  and  see  me  ?  "  she  said.  She 
turned  quickly  to  Leslie.  "  And  do  you  think  Mrs. 
Fawcett  would  come  to  see  me?  "  The  men  thanked 
her.  Leslie  feared  that  he  might  not  have  the 
chance.  He  would  not  be  in  town  for  more  than  three 
days. 

Outside,  in  the  hall,  Lionel  helped  her  with  her  wraps. 
He  was  silent,  and  she  was  shy;  but  her  shyness  made 
him  feel  that  what  she  was  afraid  to  say  was  kind.  He 
was  afraid  that  she  would  go  without  speaking.  The 
thought  gave  his  face  a  look  of  sadness  which  nerved 
her.  He  moved  to  the  door  to  open  it.  "  Let  me  see 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  95 

you  to  the  station,"  he  pleaded.  "  I'd  rather  you  did 
not,"  she  answered. 

"  Well.  If  you'd  rather  I  didn't,  I  won't,"  he  said. 
"  Seeing  people  off  is  just  like  prayers  -^r  the  dead." 

She  smiled  a  little.  She  had  onl>  a  second  more. 
"  Mr.  Heseltine,"  she  said,  bending  to  him,  and  speak- 
ing with  nervous  hurry.  "  Let  me  beg  you  not  to  start 
your  campaign.  At  least  not  as  you  said.  Don't  spoil 
a  great  cause  by  doing  something  which  isn't  quite  the 
finest  thing.  It  would  be  just  like  a  poet  taking  to  vice 
of  some  kind.  It  would  degrade  thought  unspeakably 
for  perhaps  a  generation.  Won't  you  think  better  of 
it?  Come  and  talk  to  me,  if  I  can  help?  I  feel  that 
you're  being  a  little  defiant,  aren't  you,  because  life  is 
hurting  in  some  other  way?  I  shall  be  in  to-night,  or 
to-morrow  night,  if  you  would  come  to  see  me.  Could 
you?" 

"I'll  come  one  night  soon,  if  I  may,"  he  said.  "  You 
make  me  feel  rather  a  brute."  He  hesitated  for  a 
moment.  "  I  wonder  if  women  are  right,"  he  said 
slowly.  "  Do  you  think  they  are,  Mrs.  Drummond?  " 
He  held  her  hand  for  an  instant.  "  Good-bye,"  he 
said  quietly.  "  Good-bye."  She  lowered  her  eyes.  Her 
mouth  quivered.  She  went  out  hurriedly.  Lionel  held 
the  door  open  till  he  heard  her  on  the  ground-floor 
landing.  "  I  wonder,"  he  kept  saying  in  his  mind,  "  I 
wonder."  Through  a  window  on  the  stairs  without  he 
saw  her  pass  out  of  sight  under  the  archway.  He  went 
back  moodily  to  his  friends.  "  Roger,"  he  said,  "  you're 
a  literary  man.  Tell  me  about  Drummond." 

"Drummond?"  said  Roger,  puzzled.  "Do  you 
mean  St.  Clare  Drummond?  The  sort  of  poet." 

"  Yes." 

"  He'd  nothing  to  do  with  this  Mrs.  Drummond,  had 
he?" 

"  She  was  his  wife." 


96  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  This  woman?     Married  to  Drummond?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Man,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?  I  say,  you  have  let 
me  in." 

"How?" 

"  Drummond  was  kicked  out  of  the  Tuesday  Club; 
Symes,  the  Egyptologist,  kicked  him  out,  publicly." 

"  Good  Lord,"  said  Lionel.  The  three  men  looked  at 
each  other.  Leslie,  who  didn't  know  the  story,  ex- 
pected more.  Lionel  watched  Roger's  face  with  a 
scrutiny  which  Roger  tried  to  explain,  but  could  not. 

"  So  Drummond  was  a  scoundrel?     Eh!  "  said  Leslie. 

"  What  a  beautiful  person  she  is,"  said  Roger. 
Lionel  sat  down  gloomily  in  his  armchair. 

"  I  suppose  women  are  right,"  said  Lionel.  "  But 
it's  a  point  you've  got  to  prove  before  you  can  live  by 
it.  Look  here,  you  fellows.  I've  got  to  dress.  I'm 
dining  early  at  the  other  end  of  London.  Wait  for  me, 
and  we'll  go  along  together."  He  hurried  off  into  his 
room. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  dining-room  of  the  Tuesday  Club  was  never  very 
full.  There  were  less  than  twenty  diners  present  when 
the  Plunket  party  came  to  their  table.  Most  of  those 
there  were  dining  in  couples.  A  long-haired,  sour- 
looking  youth  with  the  white  face  of  vice  sat  alone  at 
one  table.  His  face  had  all  the  pettiness  of  the  beauti- 
ful spoiled  darling,  who  has  grown  up  to  be  neither 
darling  nor  beautiful.  He  was  waiting  for  some  one, 
with  growing  irritation.  He  gave  to  Dora  and  Rhoda, 
as  they  entered,  that  look  of  fleshly  appraisement  which  ; 
should  entitle  a  woman  to  shoot  a  man.  Lionel  summed 
him  up  medically  and  spiritually  in  one  glance.  He 
turned  to  Dora  with  some  chaff  about  her  Mendelism. 
He  managed  at  the  same  time  to  get  a  view  of  Staunton, 
the  other  man  of  the  party,  a  barrister,  with  fine  eyes, 
and  a  jovial  manner.  "  In  love  with  Dora/'  Lionel 
decided.  "  And  melancholy  to  the  bone,  behind  that 
mask."  In  an  old  mirror  to  his  right,  he  saw  the 
white-faced  youth  still  staring  at  Rhoda.  He  turned 
to  Dora. 

"  Miss  Plunket/'  he  said.  "  I  feel  rather  a  draught 
at  this  table.  I'm  a  frightfully  chilly  person.  Would 
you  mind  if  we  all  went  over  to  the  table  in  the  corner 
there?" 

"  No,  I'd  love  it,"  she  said.  "  Come  along,  Rhoda. 
We're  going  over  there."  They  took  their  seats  out  of 
sight  of  the  young  man.  "  I'm  sorry  to  be  such  a  fusser," 
Lionel  said,  "  but  I'm  only  just  out  of  the  sun." 

"  I'm  glad  you  mentioned  it,"  said  Dora.  "  Besides, 
it  takes  us  out  of  sight  of  Rennet." 

"Who  is  Rennet?" 

97  G 


98  THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

11  His  real  name  is  Mr.  Gavin.  I  call  him  Rennet 
because  he  makes  me  curdle. " 

"  Is  that  the  young  man  sitting  alone  ?  "  said  Staunton. 
"He  is  very  like  Archie  Strangeways.  You  know 
Archie,  don't  you,  Miss  Derrick?  He  wrote  a  book  of 
verse  called  The  Kiss  of  Passion.  Most  romantic. 
Really  he's  a  most  blameless  person,  who  lives.  Yes. 
I  believe  he  lives  on  rennet.  Like  this  scientist.  You'll 
know  his  name,  Mr.  Heseltine.  A  Russian.  Mechnikov. 
Some  theory  about  sour  milk.  Doesn't  he  live  on  sour 
milk?  Or  is  it  the  Tartars?  No.  The  Tartars  drink 
mare's  milk.  What  was  that  book,  Dora,  about  a  man 
who  drank  mare's  milk?  I  remember  now.  It's  in  one 
of  Kingsley' s  novels.  A  horrible  book  about  illiterate 
strong  men  who  are  very  good  at  Christianity.  They 
used  to  give  it  to  me  as  a  child.  Did  you  have  Kingsley 
as  a  child,  Miss  Derrick?  But  I  expect  you  were  very 
good.  I  don't  suppose  you  were  ever  very  Erastian, 
were  you,  or  Puseyite?  Kingsley 's  always  down  upon 
people  who  are  Erastians.  Or  is  it  some  other  sect? 
Are  you  an  Erastian,  Mr.  Heseltine  ?  If  I  were  a  heretic 
I  should  be  a  heretic  of  the  Uncreated  Light.  You  get 
suddenly  luminous  just  at  the  saraband,  I  should 
say  the  cummerbund.  It  must  be  most  impressive. 
Besides  being  so  good  for  dyspepsia.  There  is  a  new 
cure,  isn't  there,  for  dyspepsia?  Did  you  see  about  it 
in  the  paper,  Miss  Derrick?  Something  to  do  with 
sand  and  running  thirty  miles.  You  know  about  it,  I 
expect,  Mr.  Heseltine.  Do  you  run  on  the  sand,  or  do 
you  take  it  in  a  little  milk  like — what  is  that  stuff  one 
has  to  take  in  milk  ?  I  shall  think  of  it  in  a  minute  ? 
You  know,  Dora?  It's  gone  out  of  my  head.  Not 
phenacetin.  Not  radium.  The  other  thing.  What  is 
it  one  takes  in  milk,  Mr.  Heseltine?  " 

"Typhoid  germs?" 

"  Oh,    that's   very   arch   of   you.     No.     Not   those. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY  99 

Though  I  believe  you  can  take  those,  can't  you?  Or  is 
that  a  He  of  the  brewers?  One  never  knows  what  to 
believe.  I  was  lunching  to-day  with  Laurence  Mennell. 
He's  engaged  to  that  red-haired  girl.  What  was  her 
name  now?  You  know  her,  Dora.  A  red-haired  girl 
who  was  at  the  Slade?  Penkridge.  Millicent  Penk- 
ridge.  They  call  her  St.  Pancras.  What  was  I  going 
to  say  about  Mennell?  Oh,  about  Belief.  He  was 
talking  to  a  policeman  in  South  Kensington  Museum, 
and  the  policeman  said  he  only  believed  in  two  books, 
the  Bible  and  The  Rights  of  Man.  For  '  there/  he  said, 
'  you've  got  English  History.'  Wasn't  that  British?  I 
wonder  what  he  meant.  Has  anybody  ever  read  The 
Rights  of  Man  ?  People  says  it's  so  awfully  good." 

"  I  thought  man  had  no  rights,"  said  Lionel,  glancing 
at  Dora. 

"  Oh,"  said  Staunton,  "  if  it  comes  to  that,  of  course 
he  hasn't.  Rights  are  legal  fictions.  No  one,  really, 
has  any  right  to  anything,  except,  I  believe,  to  the  air 
on  the  beach  below  high-water  mark.  That  is  free. 
At  least,  I  don't  suppose  it  is  free  really,  because  there 
are  all  sorts  of  manorial  rights.  You  might  run  up 
against  them.  Otherwise  you  have  a  right  to  it." 

"  But  surely,"  said  Dora,  "  one  has  a  right  to  one's 
own  property?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  you  have,  really,"  said  Staunton. 
"  But  nobody  really  knows  about  these  things  except 
old  Mr.  Justice  Baronhouse.  Do  you  know  him,  by 
any  chance  ?  A  perfectly  charming  man  to  talk  to,  but 
they  say  he  drinks  like  a  fish,  like  everybody  else  in 
these  days.  I  believe  he  could  tell  you;  but  then  he 
knows  so  much,  he  doesn't  really  know  anything.  For 
like  all  very  good  lawyers,  he  knows  such  excellent 
reasons  against  all  he  knows  that  his  life  is  really  a 
burden  to  him.  They  say  his  wife  helps  him.  It  must 
be  a  wearing  sort  of  life  for  her.  Have  you  been  to  see 


ioo         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

the  Troubles  of  Tatham  at  the  Regalia,  Miss  Derrick? 
You  really  should.  Oh,  you  ought  to  go.  You  can't 
really  say  that  you  know  life  till  you've  seen  the  Troubles 
of  Tatham.  You've  been,  Dora?  Oh,  haven't  you? 
Shall  we  all  go  to-night?  I  don't  suppose  we  should 
get  in,  though.  It's  about  a  man  in  smart  society. 
You'd  really  be  surprised." 

Rhoda  Derrick  was  wearing  a  black  satin  gown, 
severe,  but  costly.  She  was  vivid-looking  rather  than 
beautiful;  but  in  London,  where  beauty,  of  a  kind,  is 
common  enough,  vividness  is  scarce.  A  woman  with 
the  gift  of  colour  must  "  tone  herself  down,"  lest  she 
become  conspicuous.  Rhoda  had  very  quiet,  refined 
manners,  and  a  subtly-careful  carriage  of  head  and 
limbs,  thought  out,  to  the  most  minute  particular,  in 
months  of  study  before  a  pier  glass.  She  wore  only  one 
jewel,  a  necklet  of  gold,  slim  and  fine,  which,  by  its 
delicacy,  attracted  the  eye  to  the  grace  of  her  throat. 
This  throat  was,  indeed,  remarkable.  It  was  the  only 
part  of  her  which  had  what  might  be  called  intellectual 
beauty.  The  rest  was  all  colour  and  animal  grace 
reduced  to  the  terms  of  lady.  Looking  at  her,  with  a 
good  deal  of  admiration,  for  indeed  her  colour  and  glow 
were  triumphant  in  their  way,  Lionel  decided  that  her 
mouth  was  humorous,  and  her  manner  attractive.  He 
wondered  a  little,  at  first,  why  she  should  trouble  to  be 
so  nice  to  him.  Towards  the  age  of  twenty,  men  dis- 
cover that  women  who  are  nice  to  them  are  not  neces- 
sarily in  love  with  them,  but  anxious  (it  may  be)  to 
attain  an  end.  The  end  in  this  case  was  not  apparent. 
He  could  not  see  what  she  wanted.  In  the  end  he  put 
down  her  niceness  partly  to  the  fact  that  she  was 
radiantly  well,  and  partly  to  the  probability  that  Dora 
had  designs  on  Staunton,  which  could  not  be  prose- 
cuted if  people  interrupted.  He  found  the  situation 
very  agreeable,  in  spite  of  the  fact,  which  became  more 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          ro< 

obvious  at  each  moment,  that  he  was  being  used  as  a 
stalking-horse.  Miss  Derrick  had  evidently  deter- 
mined that  the  man  who  "  helped  "  in  this  way  should 
be  well  rewarded. 

A  girl  has  only  her  instinct  to  teach  her  what  effects 
she  produces  in  the  mind  of  man.  Usually,  it  guides 
her  truly;  but  there  are  moments,  generally  during 
music  in  the  evening,  in  false  lights,  in  emotional  situa- 
tions, when  the  animal  spirits,  or  mere  sentiment,  a 
baser  thing,  will  blind  the  guide,  or  urge  the  rejection 
of  her  counsels.  People  who  observe  character  super- 
ficially, for  the  resolution  of  one  curiosity,  medical, 
mercantile,  or  what  not,  are  often  betrayed  by  the 
narrowness  of  their  vision,  which  neglects  passion  or 
interest  in  its  partial  view.  Miss  Derrick  had  more  than 
one  excuse  for  her  failure  to  realise  the  possible  effect  of 
so  much  effort  to  charm. 

Lionel  was  one  of  those  men  of  whom  it  is  difficult  to 
think  in  some  human  relations.  The  women  of  the 
circles  in  which  he  moved  were  puzzled  by  him.  He 
was  not  what  they  had  been  brought  up  to  consider  as 
a  marriageable  article.  As  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Strine,  de- 
scribed the  matter  to  her  cousin  Mrs.  Hobart,  he  was 
"  not  like  a  man  at  all.  One  could  never  tell  what  form 
his  selfishness  would  take."  Rhoda  Derrick  was  a 
gentler,  shyer  person  than  most  of  the  women  of  her 
set.  She  found  him  an  agreeable  change,  with  a  rather 
winning  way. 

When  they  rose  to  leave  the  dining-room,  the  men 
looked  at  each  other,  wondering  if  they  were  to  be  left 
to  smoke  there.  "  Come  along  with  us/'  said  Dora. 
"  You  can  smoke  all  over  the  house  in  this  place.  Have 
you  got  anything  to  smoke  ?  "  She  called  with  easy 
confidence  to  a  waiter,  to  bring  coffee  and  cigarettes  to 
the  library.  Lionel  opened  the  door.  The  three  went 
out,  Staunton  close  beside  Dora,  talking  hard. 


ic*         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  How  splendid,"  he  was  saying.  "  How  splendid  of 
you.  It  is  like  that  thing  in  the  poem.  What  was  that 
poem,  Dora?  It  was  in  Lear  or  perhaps  in  Praed. 
D'you  know  Praed?  They  say  so  many  jinglers  are 
like  Praed.  But  people  are  such  asses.  Praed,  /  think, 
is  most  awfully  good.  That  thing  about  the  Fisherman. 
But  perhaps  you  haven't  read  him.  Have  you  ?  " 

When  properly  wound  up,  "  stirred  by  a  painted 
beauty  to  his  verse/'  Staunton  went  for  quite  a  long 
time.  Rhoda  followed  discreetly,  wondering  in  her 
handsome  little  head,  what  soap  Mr.  Staunton  used  to 
make  his  neck  shine  so.  There  was  a  gloss  on  it.  She 
hummed  a  couple  of  bars,  and  turned  to  await 
Lionel. 

"  Mr.  Heseltine,"  she  said,  taking  a  step  or  two 
towards  him,  "  would  you  mind?  I  think  I  left  my 
handkerchief/1 

Lionel  hurried  back  to  the  room.  Rennet  was  talk- 
ing with  a  lady  whose  dress  had  baggy  blue  bulges  at 
the  shoulders.  She  was  a  pretty  lady,  probably  greedy. 
A  waiter  was  bringing  her  a  green  liqueur.  At  another 
table  a  man  with  a  drawl  was  talking  art  to  another 
man.  The  women  of  the  party  hung  on  his  lips.  "  Of 
course  he  doesn't  really  know/'  the  drawl  was  saying. 
"  He  hasn't  really  got  taste.  He's  got  a  flair,  not  taste. 
None  of  his  set  has  any  real  taste.  They  buy  Charles 
Pollocks,  and  Hendersons,  and  things  like  Miss  Izod's." 
It  was  a  kind  of  talk  which  always  irritated  Lionel.  He 
looked  at  the  man,  so  as  to  have  his  type.  He  was  a 
well-fed,  thick-lipped  man  with  something  in  his  face 
which  would  have  been  loud  had  it  not  been  sinister. 
The  women  were  of  the  common  type  of  rich,  pretty 
danglers  upon  the  charlatans  of  art.  They  wore  the 
dresses  proper  to  the  business,  and  talked  about  Life 
and  Sincerity.  The  missing  handkerchief  was  under 
the  table. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          103 

Lionel  found  Rhoda  vacantly  waiting  in  the  passage. 
"  Thank  you/'  she  said,  smiling  on  him. 

"  What  scent  do  you  use  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  One  I  make  myself/'  she  answered.  "  Do  you  like 
it?" 

"  Yes.  I  don't  generally  like  scents,  but  I  like  this 
one.  It's  so  subtle.  Will  you  teach  me  how  to  make 
it?" 

"  What  do  you  want  with  scents?  "  she  asked.  She 
paused  to  peep  into  a  room.  A  murmur  of  voices  came 
from  within  as  she  opened  the  door.  Lionel  noted  that 
it  was  a  dim  room,  lit  apparently  by  one  lamp.  Rhoda 
hurriedly  backed  out,  with  a  pretence  of  being  shocked. 

"  Engaged,"  she  whispered.  "  Never  mind.  We'll 
find  a  place  somewhere  upstairs.  Unless,"  she  added, 
"  unless  you'd  like  to  join  Dora  in  the  library." 

"  She  would  rather  I  didn't?  "  he  asked  bluntly. 

"  That  rather  depends,  doesn't  it,"  she  said,  glancing 
up  at  him  shyly,  "  on  whether  all  men  are  as  quick  at 
guessing?  " 

"  I  hope  they'll  not  be  disturbed,"  he  said.  "  I'll 
stand  guard  at  the  door  if  you  like." 

They  went  on  together.  They  passed  one  or  two 
doors.  Music  floated  down  to  them  from  the  studio. 
Couples  passed  them.  Cards  were  going  on  in  one  room. 
Rhoda  led  the  way  into  a  sitting-room,  a  small  room, 
almost  divided  into  two  by  a  heavy  screen  containing 
Goya's  "  Tauromachia  "  and  "Guerra."  A  good  fire 
burned  there.  On  the  settee,  in  one  of  the  corners,  a 
handsome  couple  languidly  stirred  coffee,  while  they 
puffed  cigarettes,  and  asked  each  other  questions.  Such 
languors,  coupled  with  such  physical  beauty,  argued  a 
blood-relationship. 

"  We'll  come  in  here,"  said  Miss  Derrick,  brightly. 
She  touched  a  bell.  "  You'll  have  coffee,  won't  you?  " 
she  said.  "Two  coffees,  please.  A  liqueur  for  you? 


104         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

No  liqueur?  No  liqueur  then,  thanks."  She  settled 
into  her  cushions  with  an  obvious  pleasure  in  their 
warmth  and  softness.  "  This  is  a  jolly  room,  isn't  it?  " 
she  said.  "  No  thanks.  Not  another  cushion.  Four 
is  only  self-indulgence.  Five  is  advertisement.  Is 
that  chair  all  right?" 

"  Very  nice,  thanks,"  said  Lionel.  Coffee  came.  He 
noticed  that  she  heaped  the  sugar  in  her  cup.  "  Pretty 
creature,"  he  thought.  It  occurred  to  him  that  some 
women,  being  mere  dessert,  need  sugar.  He  would  tell 
Naldrett  so,  and  Naldrett  would  be  immensely  im- 
pressed. He  would  write  a  play  about  it.  No.  He 
would  not  tell  Naldrett.  He  was  vexed  with  Naldrett. 
Naldrett  was  going  off  to  wallow  again  in  his  good  old 
sentimental  sloughs.  He  was  vexed  with  Leslie,  too. 
Leslie  had  set  Naldrett  back  in  the  sloughs,  just  when 
he,  Lionel,  had  pulled  him  out  of  them.  And'  Mrs. 
Drummond  was  right,  no  doubt,  and  the  spirit  ought  to 
be  considered:  but  any  way,  he  couldn't  think  about 
it  now,  his  head  was  tired.  He  wanted  to  forget  the 
whole  business. 

"  You  look  depressed,"  said  Miss  Derrick.  "  You 
mustn't.  You  know,  you  may  smoke  in  here." 

"  Will  you  smoke?  "  he  asked. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  I  should  like  one,  if  yours 
aren't  too  strong."  She  lit  a  cigarette,  bending  over 
his  hand.  She  lit  it  with  difficulty,  holding  the  cigarette 
to  her  mouth,  woman-fashion.  The  act  gave  him  a 
strong  impression  of  the  formation  of  her  nose  and  of 
the  gradations  of  her  vivid  colour. 

"  You  are  ill,  Mr.  Heseltine,"  she  said.  "  I  shall 
prescribe  for  you.  You  must  come  with  Dora  and  me 
to  golf  next  week.  We  go  to  a  simply  wonderful  place; 
but  I  shan't  tell  you  where  it  is,  till  you  say  you'll  come. 
It'll  be  a  certain  cure." 

"  I  thought  medicine  was  nasty,"  he  said. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          105 

"  Smart  people  never  take  medicine  nowadays,"  she 
answered.  "  It  is  most  old-fashioned.  We  take  treat- 
ment. Only  people  who  take  parish  relief  have  medicine. 
It  is  most  parochial." 

"  Yes/'  he  said,  sighing,  "  that's  the  tragedy.  Are 
you  interested  in  parish  relief?  " 

"  Do  I  look  as  if  I  were?  "  she  asked. 

"  Why.  Yes,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "  You  look  so 
prosperous  that  one  would  think  you  were  receiving  it. 
You  look  as  though  you'd  been  receiving  it  for  a  long 
time,  long  enough  to  know  all  the  ropes." 

"  I  suppose  there  are  a  great  many  frauds,"  she  said. 
"  One  always  hears  so.  Are  you  interested  in  parish 
relief?" 

"  In  a  way,"  he  said.  "  I'm  interested  in  all  rather 
rotten  things.  I'm  so  fond  of  doctoring.  The  medical 
side  of  it's  amusing.  I'd  like  to  have  the  reforming  of 
it.  You  would  think  that  national  health  is  as  im- 
portant and  as  well  worth  spending  money  on  as  sea- 
power." 

"  And  is  this  why  you  look  so  sad?  "  she  asked. 

"  Do  I  look  sad?  "  he  said.  "  I  don't  feel  sad.  I 
was  worried  about  this  business,  because  some  friends 
of  mine  wouldn't  join  me  in  an  attempt  to  set  it  right. 
You  see,  one-eyed  men  think  that  all  the  two-eyed  see 
double.  But  tell  me  about  your  golf.  Are  you  very 
good?  And  where  is  your  famous  place  for  it?  " 

"  You  haven't  said  you'll  come  yet?  " 

"Will  you  be  there?" 

"  Yes.     I  said  I  should  be  there." 

"  And  you'll  let  me  carry  your  clubs?  " 

"  Oh,  the  caddie  will  do  that.  We've  got  caddies. 
We  aren't  quite  so  unsophisticated." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Lionel,  "if  it  be  still  possible  to 
amuse  oneself  in  England  without  making  somebody 
else  servile." 


io6         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  I  think  you're  most  unpleasant,"  said  Miss  Derrick. 
"  I  shan't  tell  you  where  our  place  is." 

The  languid  couple  on  the  other  side  of  the  screen  rose 
languidly  to  their  feet.  The  woman  spoke  in  the  noble 
contralto  voice  which  goes  with  a  certain  noble  type  of 
English  woman.  There  is  a  leisure  and  an  ampleness 
in  the  tone  of  it.  It  is  very  rare,  like  all  fine  things. 
But  a  blind  man  could  divine  the  noble  presence  from 
the  sound  of  such  a  voice.  It  is  perhaps  the  only  kind 
of  voice  which  has,  in  itself,  aristocratic  personality. 

"  It's  very  early,  Hartry,"  the  noble  voice  drawled. 
"  They  won't  get  to  the  Brahms  before  half-past.  And 
I'm  so  tired  of  all  these  tinkly  people.  All  the  *  com- 
miserating sevenths.'  What? " 

"  They  say  the  'cellist  isn't  bad,"  said  Hartry. 
}  "  Optimism  makes  life  hideous,"  she  drawled.  "  Get 
a  taxi,  Hartry.  I  won't  go  in  a  horse-cab."  For  just 
an  instant  she  was  in  sight  of  the  other  couple.  She 
was  a  queenly  woman,  six  feet  high,  noble  in  walk, 
look,  and  voice.  She  walked  as  though  the  world  were 
dust  to  her.  Being  a  fine  person,  she  was  justified. 
The  pair  passed  out  together,  saying  disparaging  words 
of  tinkly  people,  meaning,  apparently,  Grieg  and 
Schubert. 

"  I  feel  a  draught,"  said  Miss  Derrick,  writhing  her 
shoulders  in  cushions. 

"  They  may  have  left  the  door  open,"  said  Lionel. 
"  I  say,"  he  added,  "  they've  left  an  opera-glass.  Just 
excuse  me,  will  you,  while  I  give  it  to  them."  He 
found  her  on  the  stairs.  She  took  him  in  in  one  glance, 
past,  present,  and  future.  White  satin  made  her  very 
queenly.  The  stuff  smelt  faintly  of  sandal  wood.  She 
thanked  him.  Coming  back  to  Rhoda  he  shut  the  door. 

"  You're  not  vexed?  "  he  asked.  "  I  was  beginning 
to  be  righteous.  The  beginning  of  righteousness  is 
generally  a  quarrel  with  a  woman.  Or  getting  old.  I 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          107 

suppose,  indirectly,  that's  the  same  thing.  Do  you  ever 
quarrel?  " 

"  I  often  want  to." 

"  When  do  you  want  to?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  After  reading  novels.  When 
women  quarrel  in  novels  the  men  always  say,  '  By 
Jove,  you  do  look  beautiful/  There  must  be  some- 
thing in  it,  don't  you  think?  " 

"Shall  we  try?" 

"  We'll  try  next  week  if  you  keep  me  waiting  at  the 
station." 

"  Will  you  let  me  carry  your  clubs  ?  " 

"Do  you  want  to?" 

"  Of  course  I  want  to.     Will  you  ?  " 

11  Why  do  you  want  to  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  be  with  you." 

"  Dora  will  be  with  me." 

"  And  Mr.  Staunton." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Staunton?  " 

"  I  can't  think  of  anybody  when  you're  in  black 
satin." 

"  Do  you  like  my  gown  ?  " 

"  Very  much  indeed.  It's  perfectly  beautiful.  You 
are  like — " 

"What  am  I  like?" 

"  Like  an  ode  of  Keats." 

"  What  are  Keats  ?  "     They  laughed. 

"  Might  I  see  your  necklace,  Miss  Derrick?  " 

"  Oh,  won't  you  call  me  Rhoda?  Everybody  calls 
me  Rhoda." 

"  I  would  like  to.     May  I?" 

"  Do." 

"  I  like  Rhoda.     Rhoda.     It's  like  a  dahlia." 

"  Dahlia  was  her  sister." 

"  So  she  was.     You  couldn't  have  been  called  Dahlia." 

"Why  not?" 


108          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  Dahlia  is  soft  and  mournful.  And  pale.  With 
great  eyes." 

"  Dahlia  flaunts." 

"  That's  Delilah.     Dahlia  droops." 

"  What  nonsense  we're  talking." 

"  Our  friendship's  still  childish." 

"  Send  it  to  school." 

"  Do  you  take  pupils?  " 

"  If  you'll  carry  my  clubs."  They  were  enjoying 
themselves.  Her  eyes  were  very  bright.  She  was  all 
bright,  hair,  eyes,  skin,  and  teeth.  She  seemed  to 
sparkle. 

"  And  now  will  you  show  me  your  necklace?  " 

"Do  you  want  me  to  take  it  off?  Well.  I  will." 
She  sat  upright  from  her  cushion  and  put  her  hands  to 
her  neck,  with  a  movement  full  of  grace,  showing  arms, 
hands,  and  neck  in  all  their  roundness  and  whiteness. 
She  unclasped  the  gold,  twirled  it  in  her  left  palm  with 
one  coquetting  finger  and  held  it  out  to  him.  She  was 
smiling  at  her  roguery  and  at  its  effect  upon  him. 
Success,  men  being  what  they  are,  may  be,  and  often  is, 
mere  confession  of  vulgarity.  But  to  succeed  by  the 
brightness  of  the  purely  personal,  unmixed  with  any 
taint  of  what  is  common  to  creation,  is  choice  triumph, 
only  enjoyed  completely  by  women.  Rhoda's  triumph 
was  all  the  sweeter  from  the  niceness  of  his  responsion 
to  her  mood.  She  had  a  pleasant  sensation,  it  was  not 
a  thought,  few  people  think,  that  it  was  all  a  pleasant 
run  of  music  which  she  would  play  over  deliciously, 
from  memory,  when  she  went  to  bed.  He  took  the 
gold  frankly  from  her,  and  examined  it. 

"  What  lovely  gold  beads,"  he  said.  "  Italian,  of 
course?"  She  nodded.  Her  eyes  danced.  "Italian. 
I  like  it.  Do  you  often  wear  it  ?  " 

"  Sometimes." 

"  I  shall  waylay  you."  She  smiled,  idly  stretching 
out  her  hand. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          109 

"  What  is  the  secret  of  the  clasp?     I  can't  fasten  it." 

She  leaned  forward  slightly,  watching  his  difficulty, 
smiling.  "  Won't  you  show  it  to  me,  Rhoda?  " 

"  Since  you  call  me  that.  Look."  A  finger  with  a 
little  pink  nail  touched  the  delicate  spring.  The  clip 
snapped  to.  "  Do  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  see.  But  it  looks  nicer  on  you.  Won't  you  put 
it  on  again  ?  "  She  put  it  on. 

"  Have  you  many  jewels,  Rhoda?  " 

"  No.     Not  jewels.     I've  got  some  amusing  beads." 

"  Will  you  show  them  to  me  ?  " 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  them?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you." 

"  Well,  if  you  see  me  often,  you'll  soon  see  them  all." 

"  WiU  you  be  with  the  Plunkets  long?  " 

"  Yes.     I've  nowhere  else  to  go,  poor  dear." 

"Are  you  very  unhappy?"  She  shook  her  head, 
smiling. 

"  Do  I  look  it  ?  "     She  was  radiant. 

"  Can  I  be  your  looking-glass?  " 

"  If  it's  windy  next  week.     One's  hair  gets  so  untidy." 

"Does  it?  It's  hard  to  imagine  your  hair  untidy. 
Isn't  it  very  nice  ?  " 

"  Isn't  what  very  nice?  " 

"  The  consciousness  of  looking  delightful?  " 

"  Mr.  Heseltine,  you  will  really  come  next  week. 
You  haven't  said  you  will  yet." 

"  I  would  like  to  very  much.  You  haven't  been 
playing  long?  " 

"  Three  months." 

"  How  unselfish  of  you."    She  blushed. 

"  Don't  be  vexed,"  he  said  quickly.  "  I  meant  it. 
I  was  admiring  you.  And  of  course  you  don't  care  for 
golf.  You  like  games.  Golf  is  only  a  consolation  for 
being  born  British." 

She  looked  at  him  with  interest.     She  had  never 


i  io         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

before  met  the  perceiving  man.  She  liked  him  for  it; 
but  it  startled  her.  He  was  different.  This  was  a  new 
thing  to  her.  How  far  would  it  go  ? 

"  It  would  be  rather  absurd  to  be  vexed,  don't  you 
think ?"  she  said.  She  paused.  "I'm  very  fond  of 
Dora/'  she  added.  "  Besides/'  here  she  pricked  him 
gently,  "  it  wasn't  always  a  threesome." 

"  Gooseberry — and — Fool,"  he  said.  She  laughed  a 
little. 

"  I  shan't  talk  to  you." 

"  Rhoda." 

11  No." 

"  Rhoda." 

"Well?" 

"  You  won't  be  on  your  guard  against  me." 

"  I  haven't  decided  yet.  You  rather  took  my  breath 
away.  What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Staunton?  " 

"  From  Miss  Plunket's  point  of  view?  " 

"  She's  too  good  for  him." 

"  The  woman  always  is.  We're  a  poor  lot.  I  don't 
look  at  the  positive  possibilities  of  marriage.  I  look  at 
what  the  woman  will  be  spared.  ..."  Rhoda  weighed 
this,  pondering  what  it  might  mean. 

"  And  if  the  man  is  better  than  the  woman?  "  She 
put  the  case,  wanting,  not  the  answer,  but  his  pleasure 
in  being  asked. 

"  I've  thought  of  that,  Rhoda.  No.  If  the  man  is 
better  than  the  woman,  then  he  has  the  feminine  quality. 
You  must  regard  him  as  the  woman.  Does  that  fit 
your  experience?  " 

"  I  don't  quite  like  the  idea,  somehow,"  she  said, 
making  a  tiny  mouth.  "  But  I  think  I  see  what  you 
mean.  Are  men  very  bad  as  a  rule  ?  " 

"  Think  how  women  are  educated." 

"  Do  you  put  it  all  on  us  ?  " 

"  No,  Rhoda.     I  blame  the  idea  of  comfort.     That 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          in 

fear  of  being  burned  which  keeps  the  loaf  half-baked. 
Women  make  life  too  easy.  They  find  that  the  wild 
boar  is  tamer  in  a  trim  sty  Or  I  think  that's  it. 
They  ought  to  drive  him  out.  So  that  he  can  see  the 
stars.  That's  sentiment.  Or  is  it  priggishness  ?  Or  is  it 
merely  fudge  ?  Anyway,  women  spend  all  their  energies 
on  the  home,  instead  of  on  the  State.  And  the  result 
is  that  they  either  make  home  so  pleasant  that  the  men 
won't  think  about  the  State,  or  so  unpleasant  that  they 
go  and  get  drunk  or  commit  suicide." 
"  And  so  you  would  abolish  the  home?  " 
"  I'd  abolish  loafing-places  and  pigstyes;  about  nine- 
tenths  of  existing  homes.  Quakers  and  Coastguards 
are  the  only  people  with  homes.  Rhoda,  you  and  I  are 
products  of  loafmg-places.  And  you  agree  with  me.  I 
see  rebel  in  every  line  of  you,  fighting  against  the  con- 
sciousness of  your  black  satin." 

"  It  isn't  my  prettiest  frock,  so  there." 
11  It  must  be  one  of  your  prettiest.     And  you  are  a 
rebel?" 

"  A  woman  has  to  be.     Just  a  little  tiny  bit." 
"  Will  you  tell  me  what  we  do  for  lunch  next  week?  " 
"  We  bring  a  basket,  and  eat  in  the  Club  House. 
Hardly  anybody's  ever  there,  except  on  Saturdays  and 
Sundays.     So  we  have  a  room  to  ourselves.     I'll  bring 
lunch  for  you.     What  would  you  like?  " 
"  Leave  to  walk  with  you." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  some  rose  leaves,  and  a  few  sighs  ?  " 
"  Give  me  what  I  want  first.     Trimmings!  " 
The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck  its  little  chime 
of  sixteen  notes,  with  a  silver  tone,  plaintive  but  precise, 
telling  the  hour.     Afterwards  it  chimed  eight  notes,  for 
the  half  hour.     The  pair  talked  on  there,  in  that  for- 
gotten room,  heedless  of  the  time,  forgetting  it.     They 
were  out  of  time  for  a  brief  while.     They  were  shut  away 
from  the  world,  high  up,  in  that  dim  room.     The  hang- 


ii2          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

ings  were  so  dark  and  still,  the  design  on  them  was  as 
ominous  as  blood.  Outside,  the  wind  murmured  a  little. 
Footfalls  passed  in  the  passage.  The  music  had  stopped. 
The  fiddlers  were  out  in  the  night,  going  home,  fighting 
the  wind  at  corners.  It  was  getting  late ;  it  was  night. 
The  streets  were  still.  Frost  had  fallen.  There  in  the 
room  the  two  talked.  Life  was  quick  in  them,  life  who 
runs  fast  and  soon  withers,  the  grass  life,  the  leaf  life, 
beauty  with  the  autumn,  the  gift,  not  the  giver.  They 
were  not  like  people.  Who  would  sit  in  that  room, 
among  those  hangings,  by  firelight,  so  late,  under  all 
the  cruelties  of  the  ruthless  master?  They  were  like  a 
thought  in  a  brain,  a  thought  for  a  picture,  a  haunting 
of  De  Vries  become  flesh.  For  perhaps  all  intense 
thought  finds  a  body  for  itself,  fleshly,  if  not  intellec- 
tual. And  perhaps  these  two,  talking  together,  kindling 
a  flame  together,  were  thoughts  of  his,  made  real,  in  the 
old  romantic  house  so  steeped  in  his  mind's  colours. 

The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  chimed  the  third 
quarter.  Coals  rustled  in  the  fireplace.  They  fell  from 
the  grate  with  a  faint  metallic  clink  half  smothered  in 
ash.  Rhoda  started  quickly  up. 

"  It's  nearly  eleven/'  she  said. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  to  go  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  stay  till  twelve  if  you  like.  Only  I  must  find 
out  where  Dora  is.  I  hope  she's  got  her  latchkey." 

"  May  I  come?  " 

"  Yes.  Do."  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror, 
putting  a  touch  or  two  to  her  hair.  She  shot  a  quick 
glance  at  him,  smiling.  "  Hair's  a  bother,"  she 
said. 

"  It  checks  the  unladylike,"  he  answered.  "  Re- 
member your  weak  sisters." 

"  There,"  she  said,  moving  to  the  door.  "  Will  you 
put  out  the  light?  "  He  did  so.  They  were  in  a  dark 
carpeted  passage  full  of  draughts.  A  little  light 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          113 

glimmered  at  the  end.     It  seemed  to  filter  up  from 
somewhere  below.     A  staircase  was  there. 

"  People  don't  come  to  these  top  rooms  much,"  said 
Rhoda,  "  and  there  are  not  many  here  to-night.  They've 
all  gone  to  see  the  Brieux  play.  There's  a  hidden  stair 
at  the  end,  leading  down  to  the  gallery.  It's  behind 
some  curtains.  I  expect  we'll  find  them  there."  They 
passed  the  staircase  from  which  the  light  glimmered. 
A  few  steps  beyond,  a  slit  of  a  window  gave  them  a 
glimpse  of  roofs,  streets,  lit  windows,  a  frosty  star. 

"  Will  you  strike  a  light,  Mr.  Heseltine,"  she  asked. 
He  struck  one.  The  door  was  behind  the  hangings.  It 
hid  a  little  narrow  winding  stair. 

"  Shall  I  go  first?  "  he  said.  The  match  burned  out. 
He  stepped  down.  He  lit  another  match.  He  saw  her 
peering  down  at  him.  "  Mind  how  you  come,"  he 
cautioned.  He  heard  her  steps  follow  his;  he  heard 
the  rustle  of  her  dress. 

From  the  dimness  of  the  gallery,  they  looked  down 
upon  the  studio.  They  saw  Dora  talking  to  a  young 
man  whose  eye  had  that  wild  look  which  one  sees  in  a 
few  portraits  by  Hoppner.  It  is  the  Buck  look,  a  look 
of  animal  spirits,  dowered  with  sufficient  physical 
equipment,  nearly  extinct  here,  frequent  in  young 
America.  Staunton  had  apparently  gone. 

"  We'll  go  down  to  her,"  said  Rhoda. 

They  were  alone  in  the  gallery.  They  moved  side  by 
side  to  the  stair  which  led  past  the  silent  room.  He 
stepped  into  the  silent  room,  and  called  to  her.  The 
drip  of  water  plashed.  A  dimness,  hardly  light,  came 
from  the  window.  "  Rhoda,"  he  called.  He  could 
just  see  her  pause  at  the  door.  "  This  is  an  uncanny 
place,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  like  De  Vries.  Where  are 
you?" 

"  Here.  Isn't  it  bogey?  I've  never  been  in  here  in 
the  dark  before." 

H 


ii4         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  Well.  You  mustn't  stay  now.  You've  got  nothing 
round  your  throat.  I  meet  you  Friday  next  week  at 
five  ^to  ten  ?  At  Paddington  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  I  may  carry  your  clubs  ?  " 

"  Yes.     If  you  want  to." 

"  Right."  He  paused.  Something  was  white  on  a 
chair.  He  touched  it.  "  Rhoda.'1 

"  Yes." 

"  Miss  Plunket's  been  here.  Here's  her  handker- 
chief. I  would  know  the  scent  anywhere."  He  struck 
a  match.  The  little  scented  scrap  was  broidered  a 
big  "  D."  "  She's  been  sitting  in  the  dark,"  he  said. 

"  A  very  good  place,  too,"  said  Rhoda.  They  went 
out  smiling.  Down  in  the  studio  Dora  was  smiling. 
Lionel  helped  the  two  girls  into  a  cab.  As  he 
walked  home,  the  image  of  Rhoda  made  him  happy. 
She  was  a  charming,  vivid  comrade  who  gave  life 
a  grace.  Rhoda,  in  her  room  at  the  Plunket's,  sat 
before  the  fire,  brushing  her  hair,  thinking.  When  she 
was  in  bed,  she  sat  up,  propped  with  pillows,  while 
she  went  through  it  all  in  her  mind.  It  was  very 
delightful.  The  memory  was  full  of  little  quick  pleasant 
pangs;  but  still  she  was  not  happy.  She  was  shivery; 
her  feet  were  cold;  the  room  seemed  full  of  presences. 
Presently  she  slipped  out  of  bed,  and  crept  away,  and 
tapped  at  Dora's  bedroom  door.  Her  friend  was  awake, 
too.  She  could  not  sleep.  Rhoda  nestled  in  beside  her, 
and  kissed  her  cheek.  Her  friend's  hand  pressed  her 
shoulder  for  an  instant.  The  firelight  flickered  on  the 
ceiling,  full  of  memories  of  lives  before  this  life,  cave- 
lives,  camp-lives,  lives  in  old  turrets,  dead  lives.  A 
near  by  church  told  them  the  time,  hour  and  quarter 
hour.  Neither  girl  slept  much.  They  passed  the  night 
in  each  other's  arms,  not  understanding  very  well,  but 
frightened  and  a  little  ashamed.  At  breakfast  the  next 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          115 

morning,  as  they  drank  tea,  and  broke  toast,  before 
rushing  off,  Mr.  Plunket  gave  them  his  views  on  the 
qualified  Radical  fanatics  who  wanted  to  upset  the 
Poor  Law.  By  a  little  dexterous  sympathy,  Rhoda 
bought  a  few  fresh  facts  to  make  into  neat  little  dainty 
patties,  which,  a  week  later,  had  the  desired  effect  on 
the  manly  palate. 
Some  weeks  slipped  past. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  day  was  so  fine,  and  the  view  from  the  links,  even 
in  the  haziness  which  comes,  in  the  afternoon,  with 
slight  white  frost,  so  lovely,  that  the  players  lingered 
late.  It  was  after  sunset  when  they  left  the  tea-room 
of  the  club-house.  The  station  was  two  miles  away, 
and  the  last  good  train  was  due  in  forty-five  minutes. 
They  started  off  all  four  together,  each  couple  bent, 
rather  obviously,  on  letting  the  other  get  ahead. 

"  We'll  race  you/'  said  Lionel,  finding  that  Staunton 
could  devise  nothing. 

"  A  race?  How  splendid.  What  shall  we  have  on 
it  ?  "  said  Staunton. 

"Are  you  ready?  Go,"  said  Dora,  callously. 
"  Bother.  My  shoe's  undone.  Willy,  you're  good  at 
knots.  Do  it  up  for  me  at  once,  so  that  it  won't  come 
undone  again?  " 

"  We  shall  beat  you,"  Rhoda  called,  over  her  shoulder. 
She  carried  her  head  high.  She  stepped  out  bravely. 
Lionel's  gait  had  never  lost  its  military  briskness.  She 
kept  step  with  him,  level  with  his  shoulder.  She  gave 
him  the  sense  that  she  was  marching  with  him.  It 
was  pleasant  and  comradely  to  have  her  there  at  his 
side.  A  march  tune  of  his  old  regiment  rang  in  his 
mind.  It  was  an  Irish  tune,  pretty  well  known  on 
July  I2th  there.  He  remembered  how  he  had  marched 
to  it  on  just  such  a  night,  years  before.  She  was  follow- 
ing his  thought,  rather  cleverly.  Perhaps  she  was 
merely  prompted  by  the  beat  of  their  feet  together. 
"  Whistle  a  march,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  the  march,"  he  answered,  promptly. 

"  That  is  very  nice,"  she  said.  "  How  bright  the 
stars  are." 

116 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          117 

"  What  do  you  know  about  the  stars  ?  " 

"  I  like  walking  by  them.  They  are  like  little  knobs 
of  thought  in  a  great  brain." 

"  Yes/'  he  said,  puzzled  by  this  side  of  her.  She  was 
being  happy  by  him.  That  possibility  did  not  occur  to 
him.  "  Don't  you  think  that  that's  what  we  are?  "  he 
asked. 

"  In  a  sense/'  she  said.  "  It  makes  one  rather  gasp 
though,  doesn't  it?" 

"  So  does  everything  really  felt,"  he  answered. 

"  That  is  true,  too,"  she  said.  "  Your  life  has  been 
very  real,  hasn't  it,  Mr.  Heseltine?  " 

"  It  hasn't  been  soft,"  he  answered.  "  As  for  real 
.  .  .  no,  Rhoda.  I've  not  got  to  grips  with  it,  yet." 

"What  do  you  call  getting  to  grips  with  it?  "  she 
asked.  "  Old  Sir  Patrick  was  saying  that  you  were  the 
hardest  working  assistant  he'd  ever  had."  Sir  Patrick's 
last  words  "  and  almost  a  genius,"  she  withheld. 

"  Did  he  say  that?  "  said  Lionel.  "  Did  he!  Well. 
I  like  to  know  what  people  think.  But  that's  bread 
and  butter,  Rhoda.  That's  not  life.  Bread  and  butter 
are  two  things  which  keep  us  from  life.  I  want  to  know 
what  it's  all  about.  It's  mostly  very  petty.  All  this 
gadding  about,  and  frothing  at  the  mouth,  and  meeting 
without  mixing.  And  then  there  are  a  lot  of  wants,  all 
of  them  pretty  big  and  pretty  ugly.  And  then  there's 
the  thing  beyond.  It's  so  hard  for  a  scientist  to  say 
that  there's  anything  beyond.  Yet  he  ought  to  be  shot 
if  he  says  there  isn't.  I  feel  that  there's  something 
pretty  big  and  intellectual  beyond.  Do  you  feel 
that?" 

"  I  hope  so.  A  woman  can't  help  hoping  so.  I  some- 
times shudder  at  the  thought  of  things  touching  me. 
The  intimate  little  woman's  me  inside.  But  are  you 
sure  it  isn't  only  yourself?  " 

"  Even  that  '  makes  one  rather  gasp.'  " 


n8          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  Yes.  But  what  did  you  mean  when  you  talked  of 
getting  to  grips  with  life  ?  " 

"  I  meant  getting  rid  of  some  of  the  rottenness  which 
keeps  us  down.  Nobody  thinks  much  of  life.  Beer 
and  games  and  death,  and  the  means  of  spreading  death, 
are  reckoned  important.  But  nobody  thinks  of  life  nor 
of  its  possibilities.  And  I'm  worried  that  I've  not  got 
to  grips  with  the  facts  which  keep  life  down.  Stamping 
out  a  disease  is  one  thing.  The  child's  bricks  to  the 
architect."  He  stopped  and  looked  into  Rhoda's  face. 
He  could  only  see  it  dimly.  "  Rhoda,"  he  said,  "  why 
shouldn't  one  stamp  out  all  the  rottenness  ?  It  can  be 
done.  It  all  comes  from  what  is  fierce  and  false  in  us. 
Wants  and  greeds,  upsetting  what  has  got  beyond  them." 

Though  she  did  not  really  understand  him,  she  felt 
that  he  was  reaching  out  to  her.  She  remembered  his 
despondency  some  weeks  before.  His  friends  had  not 
helped  him.  They  were  to  have  done  something  to- 
gether in  the  way  of  social  reform,  and  putting  people  in 
prison  for  catching  cold.  And  he  had  been  sad  about  it. 
And  here  he  was  coming  to  her  about  it,  and  what  was 
she  to  say?  How  great  a  plague  men  can  be  is  only 
known  to  women.  But  man  might  remember  that 
woman  can  seldom  be  his  saint  without  being  a  martyr 
to  him  at  the  same  time.  The  fact  might  teach  him  if 
she  were  so  cruel  as  to  let  him  see  it.  Patiently  she  sits, 
extracting  the  little  crumb  of  gold  for  him  from  the  cart- 
loads of  ore  he  dumps  upon  her.  She  is  infinitely  proud. 
She  will  never  speak  if  man  will  not  see.  She  may  be 
understood,  but  never  explained.  And  if  wearying  of 
the  task,  she  become  faint,  and  offer  to  share  the  work, 
she  will  so  ask,  that,  unless  his  spirit  beats  with  hers,  he 
will  think  that  she  asks  him  to  double  it. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  it  could  be  done."  She  rapidly 
translated  the  thought  most  likely  to  be  in  him. 
"  Couldn't  you  do  it?  I  don't  know  much  about  these 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          119 

things.  But  you've  stamped  out  a  disease.  And  I 
heard  you  tell  Dora  that  big  things  were  explained  by 
little.  Couldn't  you  do  this  as  you  did  the  disease  ?  We 
must  go  on  though,  or  they'll  catch  us  up.  Tell  me 
how  you  did  the  disease,  as  we  walk  along."  They 
walked  on. 

"  Sir  Patrick  did  the  ophthalmia,"  he  said,  "  and  my 
friend  Naldrett  did  all  that  we  did  with  sleeping  sickness. 
The  first  thing  to  be  known  about  a  disease  is  its  cause, 
then  its  influence  on  the  body,  and  then,  if  possible,  the 
means  of  destroying  either  the  cause  or  the  effect.  You 
can  either  poison  the  germ,  or  train  the  body  not  to 
mind  it.  But  on  an  immense  scale  like  this,  it's  hard  to 
see  one's  way." 

"  You'll  have  to  poison  the  germ  in  this  case  here, 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  Poison's  an  ugly  word,  Rhoda." 

"  Germs  are  rather  ugly,  aren't  they.  Or  so  I  under- 
stood." 

"  Ugly?  No.  I  wouldn't  call  them  ugly.  They're 
just  low.  That's  what  I  always  say  of  human  beings 
whom  I  don't  like.  They're  not  exactly  ugly.  They're 
just  low." 

"  Well.     How  would  you  set  about  poisoning  germs  ?  " 

"  I  would  find  something  in  which  they  couldn't  live. 
Or  I'd  inject  a  less  obnoxious  breed  which  would  make 
it  impossible  for  them  to  live.  Or  I'd  expose  them  to 
the  sun." 

"  Couldn't  you  do  anything  of  the  sort  here?  "  she 
asked.  "  I  should  have  thought  you  could."  He 
turned  the  three  methods  into  terms  of  politics.  They 
were  all  workable,  on  the  body  politic.  But  success  by 
any  of  the  three  seemed  a  little  barren.  For  a  little 
instant,  he  felt  that  his  friends  would  nullify  all  intellect 
for  the  petty  part  of  it  called  style. 

"  What  would  you  do,  Rhoda?  " 


120         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  I'm  only  a  woman,"  she  said.  "  A  woman  can't  do 
much  except  ask  the  doer  to  tea." 

"  And  wear  black  satin.     And  do  her  hair  prettily." 

"  That's  not  very  much,  is  it  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  know?  "  She  blushed  in  the  dimness 
and  warmed  to  him. 

"  Are  you  very  much  troubled  about  this  work,  Mr. 
Heseltine  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  think  you  said  your  friends 
wouldn't  join  you.  Is  that  what  is  troubling  you?  " 

"  They  won't.  No.  The  trouble  with  most  people 
is  that  they  look  on  humanity  as  a  class.  Humanity 
isn't  a  class,  it's  a  nuisance.  It's  the  body  full  of  poison 
which  the  poor  little  brain  has  to  drag,  and  suffer  from. 
Rhoda,  I'm  going  to  swear.  No,  I  can't.  You  won't 
call  me  Lionel.  You  always  call  me  Mr.  Heseltine.  I 
won't.  Class  is  just  a  blinker  which  one  puts  on  before 
entering  politics.  There's  not  a  single  seeing  mind  in 
either  House.  They're  all  blinkered.  Tories,  Liberals, 
and  Labour.  How  are  you  going  to  get  a  vital  measure 
through  two  Houses  of  that  sort?  I'm  not  going  to 
try." 

"  But  isn't  that  giving  up?  "  she  said.  "  I'm  sure 
you  could.  A  woman  leads  a  sheltered  life.  It's  hard 
for  me  to  say  how  you  could  do  this.  But  you've  got 
ideas,  and  I  just  know  you  can  carry  them  out.  One 
can  always  do  as  much  as  one  plans,  though  not  quite 
so  well.  Look  how  everybody  believes  in  you,  Sir 
Patrick,  Colin  Maunsel,  all  the  Hamlin  set.  You 
wouldn't  give  up  just  because  your  friends  wouldn't 
help  you,  would  you  ?  " 

"  No,  Rhoda.  I  don't  know  though,"  he  answered 
gloomily.  "  Oh,  I'm  going  to  try.  What  worries  me 
is  not  the  thing  itself,  it's  the  way  of  tackling  it.  Class 
measures  are  half-measures.  They're  either  selfish  or 
sentimental.  Reform  comes  from  some  one  big  enough 
to  be  neither  while  using  both.  There's  only  one  way 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          121 

of  getting  a  reform,  Rhoda.  By  making  the  alternative 
dangerous.  I  am  worried  now  lest  by  doing  what  I 
want  to  do,  in  the  only  way  which  seems  possible  to  me, 
I  should  be  upsetting  something  which  is  rather  fine." 

"  Wouldn't  you  be  putting  something  fine  in  its 
place  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  should,"  he  said.  "  People  won't  understand 
that  the  use  of  fruit  is  for  seed,  not  for  sweetness.  All 
this  talk  about  style  is  a  sign  that  we're  wrong.  What 
good  is  style,  when  England  contains  half  a  million  sots 
who  can  only  know  comfort  in  a  gaol  or  in  a  workhouse  ? 
What  sort  of  seed  will  they  leave  for  humanity  ?  Every 
fortieth  person  here  is  a  loafer,  a  sot,  or  a  pauper,  or  all 
three.  What  sort  of  England  will  their  children  make  ? 
What  sort  of  song  to  praise  God  with?  " 

"  It  is  dreadful,"  she  said  in  a  hushed  voice.  She 
felt  that  he  was  going  to  say  more.  All  these  merely 
"  dreadful "  things  had  been  kept  from  her  sheltered 
life.  She  was  puzzled,  and  rather  shocked  by  them. 
She  didn't  know  what  to  say.  She  was  puzzled  by 
the  remark  about  praising  God.  She  thought  that 
that  was  done  in  church. 

"  The  fine  thing  is  on  the  top  of  all  that,"  he  went  on. 
"  And  it  is  fine.  The  best  of  our  character,  some  of  our 
women,  some  of  our  officials.  But  how  much  better  it 
would  be  if  it  were  growing  out  of  something  good, 
instead  of  out  of  what  is.  Rhoda,  I  don't  think  the 
really  fine  would  consent  to  be,  while  this  kind  of  thing 
goes  on."  He  was  excited  now,  having  found  a  just 
excuse  for  the  nullifying  of  his  scruples.  He  had  only 
to  go  on  to  the  next  step.  "  The  fine  has  no  right  to  be, 
on  these  conditions." 

"  Don't  you  think,  though,"  she  said,  "  that  a  tre- 
mendous lot  is  being  done?  And  that  what  you  call 
the  fine  is  really  necessary,  to  keep  something  alive, 
well,  just  the  idea  of  woman,  if  you  like.  Isn't  it  rather 


122          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

a  fine  thing  that  you  and  I  can  be  walking  here  together 
in  the  dark?  And  if  you  do  away  with  what  makes 
this  possible,  don't  you  really  destroy  something  fine 
merely  in  order  to  try  to  destroy  something  horrible? 
Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  keep  all  that  ?  Surely  a  soldier 
does  keep  all  that  ?  That  is  what  a  woman  understands 
by  the  word  soldier.  He  destroys  whatever  threatens 
her,  while  keeping  her  ideal  always  before  him.  Isn't 
that  it?" 

"  Rhoda,"  he  said,  "  if  I  were  a  soldier  it  would  be 
child's  play.  That  is,  if  I  had  skill  enough  and  men 
enough.  All  the  big  reforms  are  made  by  soldiers.  I 
could  march  down,  put  the  Lords  in  the  Tower  and  the 
Commons  in  the  Thames,  and  then  make  hay  while  the 
sun  shone,  being  a  sort  of  Fairfax  and  Sidney  all  the 
time.  But  I  can't  do  that.  I've  neither  got  the 
men  nor  the  chance  of  getting  them.  I've  got  to  fight 
with  modern  political  weapons.  They're  not  swords. 
They're  newspapers.  To  get  an  army  of  soldiers  one 
has  to  send  round  a  press  and  impose  a  discipline.  But 
to  get  an  army  of  voters,  or  set  a  mob  yelling  for  reform, 
one  has  to  corrupt  a  press  and  fan  up  an  hysteria.  The 
question  is  simply  this.  '  What  right  has  any  one  to 
abuse  my  methods,  when  I'm  fighting  a  public  danger 
with  the  only  weapons  allowed  ?  '  No  one  has  a  right, 
till  he  shows  a  better  weapon  and  puts  up  a  better 
battle." 

"  Colin  Maunsel  was  saying  that  the  press  is 
election  beer  masquerading  as  medical  comfort." 

"  I  call  it  the  plutocrat's  halfpenny  change  for  your 
money  and  your  life." 

Rhoda  was  looking  straight  ahead  down  the  road, 
thinking.  The  men  of  her  set  as  far  as  she  had  been 
allowed  to  see  them,  conformed  to  the  standard  of  her 
set.  They  were  not  high  standards,  though,  of  course, 
she  did  not  know  this.  They  were  founded  on  the 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          123 

elementary  and  boyish  standards  of  the  cricket-field 
and  the  fourth  form.  She  could  not  see  any  of  the  men 
known  to  her  doing  a  mean  or  an  unkind  thing.  Men 
in  other  circles  might  be  guilty,  or  horrid,  but  not  the 
men  with  whom  she  danced  and  dined.  They  were 
above  that  kind  of  thing.  It  simply  wasn't  done.  And 
if  those  jolly,  silly,  empty  boys  were  gentlemen,  how 
much  more  so  was  this  clever,  delightful  man  at  her 
side?  She  tried  to  think  how  some  other  men  known 
to  her  would  have  approached  the  tussle.  .  She  had 
helped  once  to  canvass  for  the  husband  of  a  friend,  a 
Captain  Chieveley,  a  Tariff  Reformer,  a  very  nice  man, 
extremely  good  at  bridge.  Captain  Chieveley  had  told 
her  that  the  secret  of  electioneering  was  a  house  to  house 
canvass,  with  the  promise  of  cheaper  beer,  and  stern 
insistence  on  the  need  of  making  the  foreigner  pay. 
All  that  she  remembered  of  her  lesson  was  that 
"  £150,000,000  of  goods  came  in  to  this  country  every 
year  to  rob  the  British  workman."  Some  one  had 
questioned  that  conclusion,  a  Mr.  Piggott,  a  horrid  man, 
whose  father  had  been  a  grocer,  which  just  showed  you 
how  much  he  could  know  about  government,  compared 
with  Captain  Chieveley,  son  of  Chieveley,  of  Chieveley- 
Chieveley,  the  famous  M.F.H.,  now,  alas!  slightly 
mental,  which  was  so  sad  for  his  son. 

That  the  standards  of  the  schoolboy  do  not  apply  to 
intellects  which  are  not  boyish  nor  to  passions  which 
are  not  selfish,  she  had  no  means  of  knowing. 

"  Don't  you  think/'  she  said,  "  that  everything  has 
to  be  put  so  that  it  will  be  easily  understood  ?  I  know 
very  little  about  politics,  but  when  I  was  canvassing 
for  a  friend  of  mine  I  was  told  always  to  put  the  case 
so  that  they  could  see  it.  As  far  as  I  can  see,  you're 
worrying,  aren't  you,  because  you  won't  always  be  able 
to  do  things  just  as  you  would  in  a  drawing-room? 
Of  course  you  won't.  They'll  call  you  a  liar.  They'll 


124         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

boo  you.  And  then  your  men  will  boo  the  other  man, 
and  call  him  a  liar.  And  then  you  send  out  gangs  with 
tin  trumpets  to  stop  the  other  man's  speech.  It's 
great  fun." 

Lionel  smiled  a  gloomy  smile.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I 
suppose  it's  impossible  to  keep  a  dignity  when  once  you 
begin  dabbling  in  elections.  Doesn't  it  make  you  weep, 
Rhoda,  that  an  election  should  be  our  only  means  of 
choosing  our  governors?  Would  you  choose  a  horse, 
or  a  dog,  or  a  necklace,  or  a  black  satin  dress  by  such 
a  method?  I  wouldn't." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  such  a  bad  test,"  she  said. 
"  Generally  it's  the  nicest  man  who  wins." 

"  I  never  knew  a  nice  man  yet  who  wasn't  a  fool,"  he 
said  savagely.  He  paused  on  the  point,  and  wiped  off 
the  poison  for  her  with,  "  Nor  a  clever  woman  who  wasn't 
nice." 

"  I  wish  I  were  clever,"  said  Rhoda. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  I  am,"  he  answered  humbly.  They 
laughed. 

"  Now,"  said  Rhoda.  "  You're  not  to  worry  any 
more.  But  you're  to  go  home,  and  think  out  a  plan, 
and  bring  about  your  reforms.  Of  course  you're  a 
gentleman,  and  fastidious.  But  politics  are  very  like 
the  bar,  aren't  they?  You  put  aside  all  the  personal 
part  of  you  to  be  the  mouthpiece  of  a  cause.  You  make 
the  best  of  your  own  case  and  the  worst  of  your  enemy's 
case.  You  state  the  truth  in  a  violent  way,  so  that  it 
will  get  into  people's  thick  heads.  As  long  as  it's  the 
truth,  how  does  it  matter  how  you  state  it?  That's 
what  I  always  say." 

By  the  light  of  the  moon,  now  rising,  frosty-bright, 
shaped  like  a  great  opal  sloe,  he  looked  at  the  calm, 
alert  head,  poised  in  pure  contour,  demure,  quite 
conscious  of  his  approval. 

"  That  isn't  quite  enough,"  he  said.     The  romance  of 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          125 

being  with  her  was  touching  him.  "  Tell  me,  Rhoda. 
If  I  were  to  build  up  a  press,  quite  cynically  and  in  cold 
blood,  merely  to  get  power  to  back  me  when  I  try  for 
my  reforms,  would  you  cut  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said  smiling  at  him,  "  if  you  didn't  tell 
me." 

"  And  if  I  came  to  tell  you?  " 

"  I  should  be  very  proud.     Any  woman  would  be." 

"  And  bored?" 

"  You  said  once  that  only  the  ignorant  are  bored. 
And  I  am  very  ignorant."  She  paused,  thinking  of  the 
lot  of  woman.  It  had  weighed  lightly  on  her,  but  love 
for  her  friends,  many  of  them  so  fine  and  so  cruelly 
hampered,  gave  her  words  the  sense  of  tragedy. 
"Women  are  ignorant,  don't  you  think?"  she  said, 
"  till—  " 

"Till  they're  the  schoolmaster's  fee?"  he  said, 
knitting  his  brows.  "  Yes.  But  ignorance  isn't  always 
bad.  It  need  not  be  brutishness.  Liveness  of  mind 
is  the  real  need.  Understanding.  Not  knowledge.  It 
is  that  which  women  have,  to  a  pitch  of  fineness  and 
swiftness  which  awes  me." 

"  It  is  very  nice  being  a  woman,  sometimes,"  she  said, 
meaning  that  it  was  being  nice  then.  "  And  when  will 
you  begin  your  scheme  ?  At  once  ?  " 

"At  once?"  he  answered.  "No.  I  don't  know. 
It's  a  pretty  hopeless  business.  What  would  you  do, 
Rhoda,  in  a  pretty  hopeless  business  ?  " 

"  Cry." 

"  I  wish  I  could  cry.  I  saw  a  man  cry  once.  It  has 
a  tremendous  psychologic  effect,  if  you  haven't  made 
your  audience  angry.  Nobody  cries  now  in  Parlia- 
ment. They  used  to.  Cromwell's  Parliament  were 
always  crying.  We've  got  so  used  to  getting  our 
passions  out  of  papers,  instead  of  out  of  actions,  that  we 
can't  cry.  We  wait  to  see  it  in  print,  after  it  has  passed 


126          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

through  a  brain  or  two.  I  don't  believe  any  man  now 
in  Parliament  is  sufficiently  in  earnest  to  cry.  As  long 
as  they're  cold  enough  to  keep  it  on  the  intellectual 
plane,  they  can't  be  much  in  earnest.  I'd  like  to  get  a 
few  of  them  weeping  mad,  pour  encourager  les  autres.  I 
believe  men  refuse  the  suffrage  for  just  that  reason,  that 
they're  afraid  of  tears  in  the  House.  They're  afraid  of 
people  being  visibly  in  earnest  among  them.  Tell  me, 
Rhoda,  do  you  look  on  the  Plunket's  as  your  home?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  a  woman's  home  is  where  her 
heart  is,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  That's  true.  And  you  think  me 
a  pig  for  asking?  " 

"  I  don't  like  talking  about  myself  as  a  general  rule. 
But  you're  rather  a  special  person." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said.  "  Thinking  that  of  you  made 
me  ask.  Might  I  talk  to  you  about  yourself?  " 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  You  must  never  talk  to  a  woman 
about  herself.  It's  such  a  frightfully  poor  compliment. 
You  see,  I'm  being  myself.  You  oughtn't  to  ask  for 
more  than  that."  He  smiled  at  her. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  But  there's  more  than  one  tense, 
isn't  there?  Even  for  a  woman." 

"  It  depends  on  the  mood." 

"  And  in  your  mood  ?     If  I  asked  ?  " 

"  '  Rhoda,  confess  your  past.  I  will  forgive  you  all.' 
Oh,  really,  I'm  afraid  I'm  very  commonplace  and  rather 
expensive.  I  went  to  Nogent  sur  Seine  for  a  year,  and 
to  Kaiserslautern  for  a  year  and  to  Fiesole  for  six  months. 
Then  I  was  at  Hauton  for  a  year.  And  then  I  came  out 
at  a  Hunt  Ball." 

"  What  did  you  wear?  " 

"  Black  satin?  No.  I  wore  white  that  night.  How 
funny  you  are.  You're  so  interested  in  jewels  and 
dresses." 

"  I   always   notice   clothes.     Inner   and   outer   cor- 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          127 

respond.  Point  of  view  is  as  much  shown  in  dress  as 
in  business/' 

The  conversation  continued  without  appreciable  pro- 
gression. The  moonlight  brightened.  A  few  stars, 
which  had  been  sharp  in  the  blue,  took  their  proper 
places.  The  cold  tightened.  It  seemed  to  still  the 
night.  The  ruts  on  the  road  grew  crisper.  They 
resisted  the  passing  feet.  Owls  called.  On  ahead  was 
the  station. 

"  Shall  we  wait  for  them  ?  "  said  Lionel. 

"No,"  said  Rhoda.  "We  shall  see  them  at  the 
station."  They  went  on  to  the  station.  They  had 
five  minutes  to  spare.  They  sat  on  a  bench  at  the  end 
of  the  platform.  They  looked,  now  at  each  other,  now 
at  the  doorway  which  led  from  the  booking-office  to  the 
platform.  "  They'll  miss  it  if  they  don't  hurry  up," 
said  Lionel.  "  We're  signalled.  Shall  we  wait  for 
them?" 

"No.  We'll  go  on,"  said  Rhoda.  "It  doesn't 
matter.  Dora's  father's  out  of  town  to-night."  The 
engine  drew  up  beside  them.  They  got  into  an  empty 
compartment  far  forward.  Lionel,  looking  out  of  the 
window,  saw  no  trace  of  the  other  two.  "  I  hope 
they're  all  right,"  he  said,  as  the  train  left  the  station. 
"You're  sure  we're  not  deserting  them?  Would  you 
like  the  window  up?  It's  freezing." 

"  A  little  open,  please,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  think 
they'll  feel  deserted,  somehow.  Come  and  sit  beside 
me  over  here,  and  tell  me  about  your  rooms.  I'm 
thinking  of  going  to  live  in  rooms,  or  in  a  tiny  flat,  as 
soon  as  my  present  life  comes  to  an  end." 

"When  Miss  Plunket  marries?"  She  nodded 
gravely,  looking  straight  in  front  of  her.  She  was 
looking  at  a  frame  of  photographs  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  carriage,  trying  to  get  an  image  of  herself 
in  the  glass. 


128          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  You  won't  live  alone,  Rhoda?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  have  my  maid.  I 
shall  be  away  all  my  week  ends,  and  about  half  the  year. 
And  during  the  rest  of  the  time  I  hope  you'll  come  to  tea 
with  me  to  tell  me  about  your  schemes/' 

"  That  will  be  very  nice.  Will  you  bring  Miss  Plunket 
to  tea  some  day  with  me,  at  my  flat  in  the  Temple  ?  " 

"  We  shall  like  that  awfully,"  she  said. 

"  What  day  will  you  come  ?  " 

"  We  could  come  almost  any  day."  She  paused, 
wondering  if  she  had  touched  his  mood.  "  Don't  you 
like  living  in  rooms?"  she  asked.  "Isn't  it  awfully 
snug  and  independent?  " 

"  You  can  look  at  it  in  that  way,"  he  said.  "  They're 
rather  lonely.  So  will  you  come  this  day  next  week  ?  " 

"  That  will  be  lovely,"  she  said.  "  I  expect  Dora 
will  be  able  to  come.  And  if  she  can't,  you  must  come 
to  tea  with  me,  at  our  snuggery  in  Whistler  Square  ?  " 

"  It's  rather  nice  being  a  man  sometimes,"  he  said. 

"Is  it?" 

"  Very  nice." 

"Very  nice?" 

"  When  she  makes  it  worth  while.  What  do  you  do 
in  your  snuggery?  " 

"  Oh,  read,  and  see  our  friends." 

"  And  get  frightfully  depressed?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  I've  noticed  it.  Depression  is  agony  turned  in- 
wards. Energy  is  agony  expelled.  A  woman  has  to 
turn  all  her  agony  into  herself." 

"  I  don't  think  I  get  so  very  much  agony." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  get  any." 

"  It's  rather  purposeless.  And  then,  as  you  say, 
when  it  does  hurt,  a  woman  has  to  hug  it  to  herself. 
And  when  it  doesn't  hurt,  you  may  not  ask  us  to  dance. 
So  there  we  are  bottled  up  again." 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          129 

"  Rhoda.  We're  talking  generally."  He  touched 
the  grey  glove  on  her  knee.  It  was  a  little  shy  quick 
touch,  instantly  withdrawn.  She  looked  at  him  gravely 
with  a  little  glimmer  of  a  frightened  smile.  "  Might  we 
talk  intimately  sometimes,  Rhoda?  Would  you  pay 
me  that  compliment,  I  mean?  So  that  the  best  of  us 
may  get  to  know  each  other.  You  seem  so  awfully 
lonely.  And  ...  I  would  like  to  be  the  companion." 

"  I  think  you  are  already,"  she  said,  humbly. 

"  The  real  Rhoda  seems  a  poor  little  woman  in  black 
satin,  sitting  alone  over  a  fire,  looking  into  the  coals." 

"  What  does  she  see?" 

"  A  friend?" 

"In  the  fire?" 

"That  would  be  something,  wouldn't  it?  A  friend 
in  the  fire.  To  talk  to  your  mood,  when  you're  sitting 
alone." 

"  Yes.  It  would  be  something,"  she  said  quickly. 
She  was  touched.  "  It  would  be  very  much.  Very, 
very,  very  much.  How  did  you  guess?  That's  what 
is  so  wonderful." 

"  I  didn't  guess,  Rhoda.  You've  got  a  sensitive 
mouth.  And  then  the  fact  that  .  .  .  May  I  be  on 
the  intimate  plane?"  She  looked  at  him,  instead  of 
answering. 

"  Your  father  was  .  .  .  rather  .  .  .  And  Miss 
Plunket's  more  of  an  ally?  " 

"  There's  a  great  deal  in  Dora,"  she  answered.  "  I'm 
very  fond  of  her.  But  fathers  are  a  mistake,  don't  you 
think?" 

"  Yes.  How  can  elderly  men,  with  settled  habits  and 
professions,  understand  young  women?  They  very 
rarely  understand  boys.  Mothers  can  be  pretty  dread- 
ful. All  this  talk  about  filial  duty  is  old  woman's  cant. 
The  old  have  had  their  life.  The  children  are  the 
results.  Now  it's  the  children's  turn  to  live.  If  they've 

i 


130          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

got  life  in  them,  that  life's  their  duty.  Not  pottering 
about  at  the  whim  of  an  old  fool's  selfishness.  Rhoda, 
every  middle-class  house  has  an  altar  on  which  daughters 
are  sacrificed.  What  is  it?  " 

"  An  altar  ?    The  billiard-table." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  that,  now,"  he  said,  a  little  dashed. 
"  Life  is  getting  so  vulgar.  I  meant  the  music-stool. 
How  many  saints  and  martyrs  have  endured  that 
torment,  to  glut  their  parent's  selfishness?  Girls  with 
lovers,  girls  with  talents,  girls  with  headaches,  forced 
to  '  play  a  little  something  '  while  the  parent  reflects  on 
the  dinner  and  falls  asleep.  What  did  you  have  to  play, 
Rhoda?" 

"  Billiards  before  dinner  and  Chopin  after.  Some- 
times I  was  almost  frantic  with  neuralgia.  You  see  I 
wouldn't  have  minded,  only  he'd  no  sense  of  what  a 
woman  is.  A  girl  is  a  proud,  very  delicate,  very 
fastidious,  rather  incomprehensible  thing,  even  to  her- 
self Father  looked  on  me  rather  as  a  drag.  Of  course, 
he  wanted  to  marry  again,  and  I  couldn't  stand  the 
sort  of  woman.  He  likes  rather  loud  women  with 
rather  boisterous  good  spirits.  I  simply  couldn't 
endure  being  with  them.  Or  he  thought  me  an  unwel- 
come guest  who  ought  to  be  paying  for  her  board.  He 
made  me  feel  that  he  was  doing  me  a  favour  in  letting 
me  keep  house  for  him." 

"  Poor  little  Rhoda." 

"  I  often  didn't  see  a  soul  for  a  week,  except  these 

loud  rattling  women.  Colin  Maunsel  said No,  I 

don't  think  I'll  tell  you  what  he  said  about  them.  It's 
rather  horrid." 

"  Tell  me,  Rhoda." 

"  He  said  they  were  glossy,  just  like  mares,  and  that 
they  whinnied.  It  was  true,  in  a  way." 

"  But  you're  happy  now,  Rhoda?  " 

"  Just  till  Dora  goes,  I've  a  lucid  interval." 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          131 

"  And  you're  happy  to  the  finger-tips  when  you  are 
happy,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Yes/'  she  said.  She  was  radiantly  well.  Women 
know  the  worth  of  health. 

"  You  were  happy  a  week  ago?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  glow  when  you  are  happy,"  he  said.  "  One 
can  see  the  happiness  in  your  hair." 

"  It's  not  glossy?" 

"  No.  It's  luminous.  You  are  luminous.  You  give 
one  the  impression  of  glowing." 

In  the  dusk  of  the  railway  carriage  the  richness  of  her 
colour  gave  that  impression;  but  the  glowing  was 
mainly  in  himself.  The  train  stopped  at  a  long,  lit, 
deserted  platform.  Two  women,  with  white  shawls 
over  their  heads,  stepped  hurriedly  into  a  first-class 
carriage.  A  door  slammed.  A  porter  held  a  lantern 
aloft. 

"  Is  this  Acley,  Mr.  Heseltine?  " 

"  Yes.     But.     I  say." 

"What?" 

"Might  it  be  Lionel?" 

"  Perhaps,  some  day,"  she  answered,  smiling.  "  But 
don't  frighten  me.  A  good  deal  has  happened,  hasn't 
it?" 

"  Yes.  A  good  deal.  Nothing  happens  in  life  for 
long  times  together.  And  then  something  happens 
which  makes  all  the  long  times  significant." 

"  And  rather  foolish." 

"  Empty,  not  foolish." 

"  My  life  has  been  rather  foolish." 

"  It  made  you,  Rhoda.  A  very  delightful  woman, 
with  beauty,  and  delicacy,  and  taste,  isn't  made  by 
folly.  Now  we're  getting  near  London.  Let  me  look 
you  in  the  face,  to  see  if  you're  fit  to  be  seen."  He 
changed  to  the  seat  facing  her,  and  summed  her  up, 


132         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

quizzically.  "  Your  hair's  a  little  wild,"  he  said. 
"  Otherwise  you're  a  most  respectable  young  woman. 
You're  not  too  cold,  are  you,  from  travelling?  " 

"  No,"  she  said.     "  I  am  glowing,  thank  you." 

"  Tell  me,  Rhoda,"  he  said,  "  it's  pretty  foggy  here, 
you  see.  You'll  let  me  see  you  home?  " 

"  Oh,  but  .  .  .     Are  you  sure  you  don't  mind?  " 

"  We'll  go  in  a  taxi,"  he  said.  He  helped  her  out  of 
the  train  on  to  the  platform  crowded  with  porters.  Out- 
side there  was  the  glowering  yellowness  which  is  the 
prevalent  colour  of  London  winter  air.  "  How  d'you 
keep  your  colour  in  this,  Rhoda?"  he  asked.  "You 
must  be  incandescent." 

"  I've  only  got  one  skin,"  she  said.  "  Most  people 
have  three.  That's  what  I  was  always  told.  The  in- 
candescent theory  is  not  borne  out  by  statistics." 

She  settled  into  the  corner  of  the  taxi-cab,  with  that 
evident  physical  joy  in  comfort  which  marked  so  many 
of  her  actions.  The  coldness  of  the  cab  made  her  shiver 
a  little.  He  drew  up  both  windows.  He  swiftly  slipped 
his  heavy  coat  and  tucked  it  round  her.  She  pro- 
tested, but  he  was  too  quick  and  too  masterful. 

"  Yes.  You  must,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  have  you 
getting  a  chill.  Is  that  any  warmer?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  That's  lovely.  It's  lovely  being 
taken  care  of.  That's  the  really  warming  thing,  isn't 
it  ?  "  The  car  crept  among  the  hurrying  traffic.  In  the 
quiet  roads  of  the  Park,  it  began  to  rush.  It  seemed  to 
suck  in  the  ribbon  of  road,  gleaming  from  the  gaslight. 
The  road  sucked  up  disappeared.  The  car  rushed  on 
for  more.  The  two  friends,  sitting  side  by  side,  stared 
ahead  at  the  night  they  were  charging. 

"  Rhoda." 

"  Yes." 

"Comfy?" 

"  Yes.     Very/' 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          133 

"  It'll  soon  be  over." 

"  It's  much  less  foggy  here,  isn't  it?  " 

Her  right  hand  lay  on  the  coat.  He  covered  it  with 
his  hand.  She  did  not  withdraw  her  hand,  though  it 
shrank  a  very  little.  A  deep  breath  stopped  a  tendency 
to  shudder.  They  were  silent.  When  the  car  turned 
into  Whistler  Square  from  Manet  Street  his  hand 
pressed  hers  lightly.  She  was  glad  of  her  glove,  and 
frightened,  and  off  her  guard.  The  car  was  rushing  up 
the  square  to  the  Plunket's  number. 

"  Good-bye,  Rhoda,"  he  said.  She  saw  a  gleam 
on  the  little  mirror  in  front  of  her.  The  blood  was 
throbbing  in  her  throat.  She  was  beginning  to  tremble. 
She  felt  goaded  to  laugh  before  she  burst  into  tears. 
She  swallowed  hard.  "  Let  .  .  .  Let  .  .  .  "  she  said. 

He  opened  the  door  for  her,  and  she  got  out.  She 
went  swiftly  up  the  steps  to  the  door.  She  stood  there 
for  a  moment,  breathing  down  the  unsuspected  nature, 
biting  her  lip,  still  trembling  a  little.  She  was  mistress 
of  herself  again,  though  she  feared  a  new  attack,  when 
he  stood  beside  her  outside  the  door. 

"  May  I  ring?  "  he  said.  "  Here's  your  little  hand- 
bag. You  left  it  on  the  seat." 

"  My  key's  in  the  bag,"  she  said,  wondering  at  her 
strange  hard  voice.  "  Get  it  out,  will  you?  My  hands 
are  cold."  He  opened  the  little  bag.  It  was  odorous 
with  the  warm  sweet  scent.  A  little  handkerchief  was 
stuffed  within  it;  a  neat  green  leather  purse,  long  and 
narrow  like  a  spectacle  case,  lay  below  the  handkerchief, 
a  key,  a  card-case,  and  some  chocolate  croquettes  in 
silver  paper,  lay  at  the  bottom  of  all.  He  fished  out 
the  key,  and  opened  the  door.  The  hall  within  showed 
warm  and  vivid  after  the  melancholy  of  the  fog.  He 
gave  back  the  hand-bag. 

"  Good-bye,  Rhoda,"  he  said. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said.     "  Won't  you  come  in  ?  " 


134         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  No,  I  won't  come  in,"  he  said.  "  Thank  you  very 
much." 

"  I  want  you  to  come  in.  You  must  come  in,"  she 
said.  "  You  must  see  where  I  live.  Come  on  up  to  the 
snuggery  for  a  moment." 

He  could  not  well  refuse  though  he  was  conscious  of 
an  anti-climax.  She  felt  it,  too,  though  she  could  not 
define  her  feeling.  He  followed  her  into  the  hall.  She 
picked  up  a  couple  of  letters  from  a  silver  salver  on  the 
hall  table.  For  just  an  instant  she  looked  at  them,  in 
the  warm  soft  light  of  the  hall  fire  and  great  rose-shaded 
standard  lamp.  She  put  them  unopened  into  her 
pocket.  "  Leave  your  coat,  won't  you?"  she  said. 
Her  voice  was  quite  cold  and  hard.  She  looked  wan. 
He  left  his  coat  on  a  coffer  beneath  a  Claude  Lorraine 
mirror,  which  reflected  the  hall  without  reflection,  like 
an  unintelligent  painting.  Rhoda  was  going  upstairs. 
She  turned,  coldly,  on  the  seventh  stair,  to  give  him 
confidence  with  a  smile.  He  followed  her  to  a  little 
landing,  and  thence,  by  a  turn,  to  a  big  one,  from  which 
many  white  doors  opened  glaringly  from  rose-coloured 
walls.  It  was  like  walking  in  Dora  Plunket's  mind. 
Rhoda  crossed  the  landing  to  the  right,  and  opened  a 
door.  A  dim  room,  full  of  knick-knacks,  showed.  It 
was  fire-lit  and  lamp-lit.  There  were  many  silver 
frames,  a  gleaming  brass  Indian  table,  many  pretty 
chintzes,  a  few  water-colours. 

"  There  is  a  fire,"  said  Rhoda.  "  Will  you  wait  a 
minute?  I  must  just  change.  I  won't  be  a  minute." 
Lionel  waited.  He  looked  round  the  room.  A  pot 
contained  a  shrub  with  beautiful  big  red  and  yellow 
berries.  One  of  the  pictures,  of  sea  under  wind,  was 
clever.  Photographs  of  Colin  Maunsel  faced  photo- 
graphs of  Rhoda,  Dora,  Milly,  and  Polly.  Polly 
poudrb  in  a  Louis  Seize  gown,  laughed  at  Rhoda  as  a 
Giorgione  portrait.  Two  escritoires  presented  every 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          135 

possible  inconvenience  for  writing.  The  one  which  he 
guessed  to  be  Rhoda's  was  littered  with  mimic  Sevres, 
little  porcelain  rose-bushes,  little  porcelain  tulips,  all 
very  exquisite.  A  big  silver  cigarette  box  lay  on  a 
table.  On  another  table,  in  a  book-case  bound  with 
brass,  were  some  twenty  novels,  a  few  new  magazines, 
and  a  few  new  books  of  eighteenth-century  memoirs. 
He  opened  one  of  these.  There  were  many  reproduc- 
tions from  portraits  of  forgotten  fools.  "  Ach,  Gott," 
he  thought.  "  What  were  we  in  the  eighteenth  century  ? 
One  would  think  we  were  a  race  of  actresses  and  pimps." 
The  carpet  was  a  rosy  plain-cloth.  A  white  bearskin 
made  a  hearthrug.  The  chairs  were  cheap,  comfortable 
wicker  chairs  abundantly  cushioned.  There  was  a 
modern  gilt  imitation  French  mirror  over  the  mantel- 
piece. Lionel  smoothed  down  his  hair  before  it.  He 
was  not  a  vain  man,  but  he  was  proud  of  his  hands. 
They  were  in  need  of  washing.  He  steadied  his  tie. 
He  began  to  examine  a  replica  of  the  Hypnos  which 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  mantelpiece.  Wondering  at 
the  nature  of  the  spirit  which  had  once  worn  that  gentle 
face  kept  him  from  wondering  what  it  did  there.  What 
beauty  could  we  moderns  set  beside  it,  he  wondered. 
"  Gentle  Mrs.  Opie?"  he  thought.  No.  She,  for  all 
her  charms,  was  mainly  housewife.  Or  a  lady  by 
Mancini,  a  wonderful  puzzle  of  a  lady,  who  had  puzzled 
even  the  painter?  He  had  seen  her  once  at  the  New 
Gallery.  No.  The  Mancini  lady  was  a  puzzle  even  to 
herself,  and  therefore  imperfect.  Or  Mrs.  Drummond  ? 
Yes.  Mrs.  Drummond  had  that  beauty.  He  craned 
over  to  get  the  side  face.  Yes.  In  the  side  face  it 
was  like  Mrs.  Drummond;  markedly  like.  There  was 
just  that  gentle  sweetness  of  the  soul  who  has  got  hold 
of  life.  Perhaps  since  the  Greeks  not  more  than  three 
artists  have  cared  for  that  kind  of  soul.  He  was  still 
wondering  at  the  peace  of  the  face  when  the  door  opened. 


136         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Rhoda  streamed  in  in  her  black  satin,  with  her  hair 
brushed  in  a  new  way. 

"  Rhoda/'  he  said,  "  how  quick  you've  been."  She 
came  hurriedly  to  the  fireplace.  She  bent,  and  held 
her  hands  to  the  blaze  with  a  little  shiver. 

"  Cold  in  my  room,"  she  said,  with  a  quick  glance  up 
at  him.  "  What  a  lovely  fire!  I  just  flew  into  my 
things,  so  as  not  to  keep  you.  Am  I  very  untidy?  " 
She  rose,  and  patted  off  invisible  dust  from  her  bodice, 
craning  forward  to  the  mirror.  Her  eyes  met  his  in 
the  mirror.  She  laughed. 

"  Am  I  untidy?  "  she  asked  again,  coquetting. 

"  Look  at  me.  And  I'll  tell  you,"  he  said.  "  Full 
face  is  tidy.  A  little  round,  please.  Now  the  other 
side.  There  are  two  or  three  hairs  rather  waggish 
behind  your  left  ear." 

"Untidy?" 

"  Rather  nice.  You  are  rather  a  nice  person,  Rhoda. 
I've  not  seen  that  necklace.  And  I've  not  seen  that 
bangle.  What  other  adornments  ?  I've  seen  the  smile. 
Have  I  seen  the  look  in  the  eyes  ?  "  She  nodded.  Her 
eyes  took  him  in  in  a  sudden  dancing  glance. 

"The  same  look?"  he  queried.  "Not  quite  the 
same  look,  Rhoda?  " 

She  hung  her  head,  and  stole  a  shy  glance;  her  mouth 
trembled  a  little,  she  was  humble  and  a  little  afraid. 
He  saw  her  trouble  and  gave  her  breath. 

"  Is  this  where  you  come  to  gaze  into  the  fire,  Rhoda  ?  " 
She  nodded. 

"Which  chair?  This  chair?"  She  nodded.  He 
drew  it  up  for  her.  She  wanted  petting.  He  settled 
the  cushions.  They  were  big  white,  very  soft  cushions, 
sprinkled  with  little  red  sprigs.  He  noticed  them  as 
being  probably  her  choice.  Dora  cut  a  broad  swathe 
carelessly.  Some  one  had  been  deliberate  over  these 
cushions,  nearly  rejecting  them,  perhaps.  "  Sit  down, 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          137 

Rhoda,"  he  said.  "  Let's  gaze  into  the  fire  together, 
shall  we?" 

"  Bad  for  the  eyes,"  she  said  weakly,  settling  herself 
in.  She  leaned  forward,  resting  her  cheek  on  one  hand. 
Her  left  little  finger  moving  slightly,  softly  caressed  her 
cheek.  "Where  will  you  sit?  Will  you  sit  there?" 
She  smiled,  but  she  was  feeling  very  near  to  tears,  she 
was  so  happy.  He  took  Dora's  chair.  The  fire  put  a 
glow  upon  him.  Otherwise  it  was  dim  enough  for  his 
wrinkles  not  to  show.  He  looked  five  years  younger  by 
firelight.  Rhoda,  stealing  a  shy  quick  glance,  saw  how 
handsome  he  would  have  been  if  he  had  not  gone  to 
those  horrid  tropics,  where  colour  becomes  varnish,  and 
the  peach-skin  a  wet  cloak  ill-laid-up.  She  was  very 
proud  of  him.  He  was  thinking  how  narrow  his  woman- 
less  life  had  been.  How  rose-pink  life  became  suddenly 
with  the  entrance  of  this  shy  sweet  point  of  view.  He 
had  not  realised  before  how  woman  completes  a  man. 
He  thought  that  it  would  be  a  little  thing  to  fight  the 
world,  if  he  had  this  to  come  to,  at  the  end  of  the  day's 
battle. 

"  Rhoda." 

"  Yes." 

"  When  shall  I  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  This  day  week,  if  Dora  can  come." 

"  Could  I  see  you  to-morrow?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No.  Not  to-morrow.  I've 
got  to  entertain  here.  What  are  you  going  to  do  to- 
morrow? " 

"I'm  going  to  start  my  work,  as  we  planned." 

"  You'll  promise  to  tell  me  everything?  " 

"  Don't  let  yourself  in  for  more  than  you  can  help." 
He  stood  up,  smiling.  He  looked  very  charming  when 
he  smiled.  "  I  must  go,  Rhoda,"  he  said;  "  when  can 
we  talk  again?  As  we  talked  this  evening?  " 

"  That  was  good  talk,"   she  said.     She  stood  up, 


138         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

pensively.  She  seemed  preoccupied  with  a  little  silver 
stand  of  matches  beside  the  Hypnos.  Her  finger  stroked 
the  matches  into  a  bunch,  and  scattered  them  into  open 
order.  She  was  tasting  again,  in  all  its  sweetness,  the 
touch  on  her  glove  at  the  beginning  of  intimacy. 

"  When  can  it  be  again,  Rhoda?  " 

"  Come  on  Sunday,"  she  said.  "  Come  to  tea  and 
stay  supper/' 

"  Rhoda,  my  friend/' 

"  Yes." 

"May  I  have  this  little  photograph?"  He  picked 
up  a  midget  from  the  mantel. 

"  It's  Dora's." 

"  Mayn't  I  bag  it?  Dora  doesn't  want  it.  She's  got 
the  original." 

"  I've  got  another  you  might  have.  It's  a  better  one 
than  that." 

"  Is  it  in  your  desk?  That's  your  desk,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Yes.  That  is  mine.  Of  course."  She  went  swiftly 
to  it  and  pulled  open  a  drawer. 

"  I  knew  it  was  yours,"  he  said.  "  The  little  Sevres 
things  are  so  like  you." 

"They're  pretty,  aren't  they?"  She  took  out  a 
photograph  of  herself  in  a  Spanish  costume.  She  had  a 
rose  in  her  hair.  She  held  a  fan  archly.  "  Would  you 
like  this?  "  she  asked.  "  It's  like  me.  It's  the  last  I 
had  done."  She  had  something  palmed  in  her  other 
hand. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said.  "  May  I  really  have  it, 
Rhoda?" 

"  ReaUy  and  truly.     D'you  think  it's  like  ?  " 

"  Very  like,"  he  said.  "  But  our  Rhoda  wears  golf- 
ing things,  doesn't  she?  " 

"  Perhaps  our  Rhoda  will  get  taken  one  of  these  days. 
Here."  She  slipped  a  tiny  toy  tulip  into  his  hand.  It 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          139 

was  a  little  gem  of  porcelain,  pot,  leaves,  and  bloom,  an 
inch  and  a  half  long. 

"  Thank  you,  Rhoda,"  he  said.  "  That  will  remind 
me  of  the  golfing."  A  peculiar  knock  sounded  far  below 
in  the  hall. 

"Here's  Dora,"  said  Rhoda.  "You'll  stay  to  see 
her?" 

"  No,  Rhoda.     I  must  go.     Good-bye,  Rhoda." 

"  Good-bye."  She  looked  at  him  frankly,  but  under 
the  pressure  of  his  hand  her  eyes  drooped.  He  held 
her  hand. 

"  Good-bye  ?  "  he  queried.  She  turned  her  face  aside, 
wan  to  the  lips.  "  Good-bye?  " 

"  Lionel,"  she  said  faintly. 

"  God  bless  you,  Rhoda."     Dora  entered 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  winter  was  sad  to  Mary  Drummond.     She  kept  her 
Christmas  in  bed.     The  attack  of  influenza  left  her 
nervous   and  depressed.     She  went   to   the  South  of 
France  for  a  month.     Two  days  after  her  return  to 
England,  her  husband  was  knocked  down  by  a  motor 
car  in  the  Strand.     His  skull  was  fractured.     About  an 
hour  later  he  died  in  the  emergency  ward  of  one  of  the 
Charing  Cross  Hospitals,  without  recovering  conscious- 
ness.    At  the  inquest  it  was  proved  that  he  was  drunk 
at  the  time  of  the  accident.     "  He  was  never  sober  after 
ten/'  so  his  landlord  swore.     "  He  was  always  a  perfect 
gentleman/'   his  landlady  said,    "  but   'e   did  use   to 
exceed."     A    "  commission    agent "    who    had    been 
"  looking   out   for   a   commission "    at   the   corner   of 
Bedford  Street,  at  the  time  of  the  accident  (half  past 
twelve  at  midnight),  said  that  deceased  ran  in  front  of 
the  motor  car,  "  pretendin'  'e  was  a  cop."     The  driver 
of  the  car,  white-faced  and  sick,  with  the  terror  of  a 
charge  of  manslaughter  hanging  over  him,   tried   to 
make  the  coroner  believe  that  his  car  was  going  at  the 
rate  of  one  mile  an  hour.     "  If  I'd  been  going  more'n 
that,"  he  said,  "  I'd  have  gone  over  him,  the  way  he 
came  at  me."     The  coroner  seemed  very  bored  by  the 
proceedings.     He  said  that  he  did  not  know  "  what  to 
make  of  evidence  like  that."     Somebody  then  said  that 
the  driver  had  been  in  trouble  once  before,  for  exceeding 
the  speed  limit.     The  jury  stared  at  the  driver.     A  big 
policeman  mopped  his  brow.     A  facetious  doctor  de- 
posed   to   having   treated   the   deceased   for   nervous 
derangement   caused   by   drink.     In   his   opinion   the 
man  wasn't  in  his  right  mind.     He  was  a  dipsomaniac. 
He  wrote  some  of   his  evidence  on  a  card.      Ernest 

140 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          141 

Gavin  swore  that  he  had  dined  with  the  deceased  just 
before  the  accident.  Drummond  was  sober  then.  So 
it  went  on. 

Common  sense  is  a  good  guide  among  the  bitterness 
of  factions.  The  jury  exonerated  the  driver.  It  was 
an  accident.  "  The  deceased  met  his  death  by  accident, 
while  under  the  influence  of  drink."  The  newspaper 
reports  omitted  the  last  six  words  of  the  finding.  "  Mr. 
St.  Clare  Drummond,"  they  said,  "  was  born  in  1868, 
and  educated  on  the  Continent.  He  was  the  author 
of  Prose  Poems  (1889),  The  Etchings  of  Fragonard 
(impressions,  1892),  The  Green  Symbol  (novel,  1895), 
Sonnets  of  the  Passion  (1902.)  Since  1904  Mr.  Drum- 
mond has  published  nothing,  but  his  work  on  the 
Backwash  and  other  high-class  periodicals  is  well-known. 
Mr.  Drummond  married  in  1895." 

The  death  confirmed  the  opinion  of  those  who  knew 
him.  "  He  was  a  drunken  beast,  and  queer  in  other 
ways."  Those  who  knew  wondered  at  the  tone  of  the 
Press.  Those  who  knew  Mrs.  Drummond  were  glad. 

Her  feelings  were  hard  to  define.  She  had  not  seen 
her  husband  for  many  years.  He  died,  and  was  buried 
out  of  her  heart,  many  years  before,  on  the  night  of  the 
discovery.  The  drunkard's  sudden  death  was  not 
frightful  to  her.  She  felt  a  vague  relief  that  that  page 
in  her  life  was  now  turned,  forever.  She  was  not  sorry 
for  him.  She  had  foreseen  some  such  end  from  the  first. 
It  is  hard  to  feel  real  grief  for  a  man  whom  one  has  not 
seen  for  fifteen  years.  She  was  not  the  kind  of  woman 
to  indulge  in  sentiment  about  him.  But  his  death  was 
a  sharp  reminder  that  he  had  once  lived.  Little 
memories  of  him  became  bright  again.  The  great 
memories  hurt  again.  Sitting  alone  in  her  flat,  she  felt 
that  her  life  had  slipped  away,  and  that  the  great  things 
had  failed  her. 

Thinking  of  the  past  gave  her  a  longing  to  look  again 


142          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

at  what  the  past  had  left  to  her.  She  went  to  the  little 
sitting  room  which  her  friend  Kitty  Minot  used  as  a 
workroom  whenever  she  was  in  town.  There  were  two 
fine  old  coffers  in  the  room.  They  were  always  kept 
locked.  They  had  belonged  to  her  father.  They 
contained  nearly  all  that  remained  to  her  of  the  men 
and  women  whose  spirits  had  been  influences  in  her 
life.  She  seldom  opened  these  coffers.  She  felt  that 
times  long  past  should  be  left  in  the  past,  after  the 
something  enduring  has  been  proved  from  them.  Her 
past  had  not  been  happy.  One  less  rare  and  gentle 
would  have  sunk  under  such  blows  from  life,  or  failed, 
in  that  worst  failure,  a  heartless  endurance.  She 
looked  at  the  coffers.  One  was  of  oak,  black  with  age 
and  of  immense  weight.  The  other,  much  smaller, 
was  plated  and  barred  with  iron.  It  resembled  the 
Chatham  Chest,  once  filled  by  the  twopences  of  seamen. 
The  ironwork  upon  it  was  strong  and  good,  not  hand- 
some, but  with  all  a  man's  virtue  in  it.  Mary  Drum- 
mond  always  hesitated  before  unlocking  that  chest. 

She  unlocked  the  oak  chest,  and  thrust  back  the 
heavy  lid.  She  lifted  the  green  cloth  which  kept  the 
contents  from  dust.  A  fragrance  of  lavender  rose 
from  within.  One  of  the  muslin  bags  had  burst. 
Little  bluish  pellets  of  lavender  had  scattered  among 
the  packages.  There  were  many  packages.  She 
turned  them  over  gently,  wondering  why  she  kept 
them  all,  yet  knowing  that  she  could  not  burn  them. 
She  took  out  half  a  dozen  packages.  Opening  them, 
one  at  a  time,  she  entered  again  into  the  past,  with  the 
feeling  that  it  was  infinitely  dead.  There  were  letters 
from  friends  who  had  been  dead  for  twenty  years, 
letters  from  people  who  had  been  dear,  letters  about 
people  who  had  been  forgotten.  There  were  other 
things  than  letters.  There  were  dance  programmes, 
scrawled  with  names.  She  smiled  when  she  saw  these. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          143 

Years  before,  in  her  dancing  days,  she  had  jotted  down 
on  each  programme  a  note  of  the  dress  she  had  worn. 
There  were  the  notes.  "  White  satin."  "  Green  silk, 
V.  lace."  She  remembered  some  of  the  dresses  clearly. 
Some  of  the  names  on  the  programmes  were  familiar; 
some  of  the  dances.  She  thought  of  the  dance  tunes. 
How  they  had  changed.  Here  was  a  little  old  account 
book,  containing  the  diary  and  "  accounts  "  of  her  first 
visit  to  London,  at  the  age  of  twelve.  She  had  bought 
a  tiny  eighteenth-century  brooch,  set  with  minute  seed 
pearls.  She  had  it  still.  There  was  the  record. 
"  Bought  a  brooch  at  Thomasson's  in  Oxford  Street, 
135.  6d."  She  opened  another  packet.  It  contained 
letters  from  her  mother.  She  was  nearly  sixteen  when 
her  mother  died.  She  thought,  suddenly,  that  it  was 
ten  years  since  she  had  read  these  letters  of  her  mother's. 
How  one  forgets  the  dead.  How  many  myriads  of 
mothers  enter  the  earth  and  the  night.  She  remembered 
the  words  of  her  old  Irish  nurse,  when  they  had  stood 
together  for  the  first  time  at  the  grave  of  that  dear  one. 
"  Let  you  not  be  troubled,  Miss  Mary.  Indeed,  there's 
a  lot  of  foolishness  the  Protestants  do  be  talking.  It's 
well-known  the  mothers  come  back.  Wouldn't  the 
good  God  know  their  wants?"  Her  old  nurse  was 
alive  still,  in  the  County  Wicklow.  She  was  alive 
still.  Her  mother  lay  under  the  grass.  The  Mummy 
who  had  been  so  good  to  her,  for  whom  she  had  cried  so. 
What  is  the  meaning  of  Death?  He  breaks  all  that  is 
dear.  He  breaks  love  across  the  bones  of  his  knees,  as 
blindly  as  he  kills  the  fool. 

She  read  through  all  her  mother's  letters.  As  she 
read,  she  remembered  little  noblenesses  in  her  mother's 
character.  If  the  door  might  open,  now,  and  the  dead 
appear.  If  they  might  talk  it  out,  as  dear  friends,  two 
grey-haired  women  together.  She  put  away  the  letters , 
sighing.  She  looked  at  the  bottom  of  the  chest  for 


144         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

another  package.  A  ribbon  had  broken.  The  letters 
of  one  of  the  packages  were  scattered  among  the 
lavender  pellets.  She  took  them  up,  wondering  what 
they  were.  They  were  letters  which  she  had  received 
a  quarter  of  a  century  before,  at  a  time  very  sacred  to 
her.  She  had  not  looked  at  them  for  years,  twenty 
years  perhaps,  perhaps  more.  She  looked  at  them  with 
curiosity.  She  had  forgotten  about  them.  What  were 
they  ?  What  did  each  mean  ?  How  strange  they  were. 
A  receipted  hotel  bill,  a  grocer's  account,  the  card  for 
the  Tubber  Races,  1884,  letters  from  her  dressmaker, 
a  note  from  one  Julia  Harcourt,  saying  that  she  would 
be  in  for  tea  at  five  o'clock.  Why,  Julia  had  been  dead 
for  twenty-three  years,  pitched  out  of  a  trap,  poor  girl 
What  else  was  there?  An  answer  to  the  advertise- 
ment for  a  bangle  lost  at  the  races.  One  Pat  McKeown 
had  found  a  bangle,  "  with  like  coloured  beads  on  it." 
Pat  McKeown,  a  squat  North  Irish  farmer  with  curly 
hair.  At  the  bottom  of  all  was  a  note  asking  her  to  take 
part  in  a  croquet  tournament.  There  was  to  be  a 
croquet  tournament  at  Castle  Slemish,  and  would  she 
make  one?  The  note  had  an  irregular  yellow  stain 
upon  it.  It  looked  as  though  tea  had  been  spilled 
upon  it.  The  writing  was  the  writing  of  a  clever, 
lovable  character.  There  was  no  weakness  in  the  hand, 
but  little  waywardnesses,  humours,  charm.  It  was  a 
boyish  hand,  written  by  one  whose  people,  for  genera- 
tions, had  lived  happy  lives,  free  from  any  taint  of  the 
baseness  and  hardness  of  commerce.  It  takes  six 
generations  to  breed  out  the  taint  of  commerce.  Mary 
Drummond  turned  the  page,  wondering  who  had 
written  the  letter.  She  read  it  through. 

"  DEAR  MARY, — I  hear  from  Mrs.  Henryson  that  you 
will  be  stopping  till  the  loth.  It  would  be  very  nice  if 
you  would  come  over,  one  afternoon,  before  the  tourna- 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          145 

ment.  You  were  saying  that  you  would  like  to  paint 
the  sweet-pea  hedge.  It  is  at  its  best  now.  I  have 
never  seen  it  so  beautiful.  Will  you  come  on  Tuesday 
next  ?  Come  in  the  morning  so  as  to  have  time  for  your 
sketch. — Yours  very  sincerely,  LYDIA  HESELTINE." 

That  was  this  young  man's  mother,  a  gentle  sad- 
looking  woman  with  a  winning  smile  and  a  grave  voice. 
Dead  many  years  ago  of  course.  Dear  Mrs.  Heseltine 
who  was  so  gentle  in  a  day  of  pain  a  quarter  of  a  century 
before.  Mary  Drummond  felt  a  pang  of  pity  for  the 
dead.  You  poor  dead  who  were  so  gentle  with  us.  Are 
these  stray  meetings  with  relics  of  you  a  sign  that  your 
love  works  on  from  the  dust,  bringing  peace,  bringing 
beauty?  All  the  blessings  in  life  may  be  the  gift  of 
the  dead. 
•  "  Nous  devrions  pourtant  lui  porter  quelques  fleurs." 

She  re-tied  the  scattered  letters,  drew  down  the  dust 
cloth  and  locked  the  chest.  She  would  not  read  more 
of  that  ancient  history.  She  peeped  for  an  instant 
under  the  iron  lid  of  the  smaller  chest.  She  touched 
something  white  and  soft  which  lay  within.  Then  she 
locked  that,  too.  She  left  the  room,  humming  Bach's 
"  Komm  Jesu."  The  past  may  become  a  torment,  but 
a  very  little  of  its  ashes  will  make  one  glad  of  the  sun. 
She  was  cheered.  She  felt  happier  than  she  had  been 
for  some  weeks.  She  played  to  herself,  dusted  her 
precious  Crown  Derby  tea-set,  talked  for  twenty 
minutes  with  her  maid,  and  then  settled  down  to  read. 
Her  book  was  the  never  failing  Recit  d'une  Sceur.  She 
knew  many  of  its  pages  by  heart.  It  had  been  more 
than  a  joy  to  her;  it  had  been  an  intimate  companion 
during  many  years.  After  half  an  hour  of  reading,  her 
mind  wandered  into  her  memories  again.  She  thought 
again  of  those  old  days  in  Ireland  when  the  glory  had 
happened.  She  found  herself  thinking  of  Lydia  Hesel- 


146          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

tine.  She  tried  to  remember  more  of  her.  She  tried 
to  bring  back  into  her  mind  a  memory  of  Cushnacraga. 
Tiny  incidents  of  the  day  of  her  visit  occurred  to  her. 
A  horse  had  cast  a  shoe  on  the  way  back.  The  house 
had  almost  vanished  from  her  memory.  She  remem- 
bered the  drive,  the  sweet-pea  hedge,  and  the  gentle 
lady.  She  could  remember  nothing  more.  A  perfect 
August  day  and  a  drive  by  the  sea. 

She  thought  of  the  young  man  in  the  Temple,  wonder- 
ing how  his  work  was  going.  Her  mind  played  its 
swift  rapier  round  her  memories  of  him.  She  was  sorry 
for  him.  She  thought  of  the  amount  of  harm  an  un- 
scrupulous energy  may  do  in  the  world.  She  wished 
that  she  might  see  more  of  him.  In  a  few  days  she  was 
going  into  the  country,  to  the  house  which  she  shared 
with  Kitty  Minot.  Perhaps  he  would  come  to  stay 
with  them.  Vulgar  women  use  their  enchantments  to 
obtain  an  entrance  into  the  lives  of  men.  There  are 
few  things  more  pitiful  in  life.  The  vulgar  mind,  when 
cased  in  a  woman's  body,  may  enter  into  any  house  of 
the  soul,  draw  to  herself  the  riches  of  it,  make  waste  of 
them,  toss  them  about,  with  the  pretentious  criticism 
of  the  vulgar,  steal  from  them,  with  the  whore's  wiles, 
all  in  the  name  of  love,  to  the  tune  love  pipes.  A  love 
of  power  in  the  heartless  and  the  mindless  produces  in 
time  the  modern  heroine,  the  woman  with  a  past,  un- 
happy because  her  power  of  getting  power  has  won  for 
her  only  the  presence  of  the  unseen  dead  who  sit  at 
meat  with  her,  rise  up,  and  follow  her,  in  the  brain's 
flameless  hell  for  ever.  Vulgar  women  of  the  kind  are 
responsible  for  woman's  position  to-day.  Men  know 
their  weakness  too  well  to  give  away  the  little  hold  they 
have  upon  such  people.  Mary  Drummond  hesitated  at 
her  writing-table,  lest  Lionel  should  mistake  her  interest 
in  him  for  a  feminine  wile.  The  stealthy  stretching  of 
the  cat's  paw,  all  velvet,  before  the  clutch  of  capture. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          147 

He  was  lonely.  Would  he  come  to  them  for  a  week-end. 
She  wrote  a  brief  note,  saying  nothing  about  the  loneli- 
ness. She  played  with  her  pen  for  a  little  while.  "  He 
is  prey  marked  out/'  she  thought.  She  saw  in  her  mind 
the  advance  of  the  creature,  all,  outwardly,  thoughtful 
for  his  welfare,  all,  inwardly,  greedy  for  her  own  pleasure 
or  profit.  Perhaps  he  would  be  saved  by  his  want  of 
emotion.  His  intellect  dominated  him.  He  would  see 
a  lack  of  intellect  where  the  creature  would  wish  him  to 
perceive  a  want  of  sympathy. 

The  bell  made  a  gentle  klirr  in  the  passage.  The 
maid's  feet  rustled  along  the  matting  to  the  door. 
Little  Polly  Hamlin  came  in,  breathless. 

"  My  dear  Cousin  Mary/'  she  cried. 

"  Why,  Polly  dear,  how  are  you?  "     They  embraced. 

"  Come  to  the  fire/'  said  Mrs.  Drummond.  "  We'll 
have  tea.  How  well  you're  looking,  Polly.  What 
have  you  been  doing?  " 

"  I've  been  dining  at  the  Plunkets.  -  Very  grown-up. 
I've  been  meeting  all  the  world." 

"  Well.  Tell  me  of  the  world,"  said  Mrs.  Drummond. 
"  I've  been  out  of  the  world  since  Christmas  Who  was 
there?" 

"  Eric  and  his  wife.  Looking  very  newly-married- 
coupledish.  Cousin  Mary,  what  makes  them  look  such 
sheep?" 

"  A  sense  of  the  disproportion  between  their  emotions 
and  the  world's  opinion  of  them.  Eric,  the  bold,  wild 
mountain  goat,  too.  Who  had  you  ?  " 

"  Rupert  had  me.  Billy  on  the  other  side.  Billy's 
giving  me  a  perfect  love  of  a  blue  Persian." 

"  You  seem  to  have  had  a  prosperous  evening.  Who 
else  was  there?  " 

"  Dora.  Colin  Maunsel.  A  Mr.  Staunton.  Every- 
body thought  he  was  going  to  marry  Dora.  He's 
not  nearly  good  enough.  But  now  it  seems  that  he's 


148         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

become  a  Roman  Catholic;  and  so  that's  at  an  end. 
Rhoda  was  there,  of  course.  Olivia  Farwell.  Eleanor. 
Billy,  Mr.  Lion  Heseltine,  and  Rupert.  I  think  that 
was  all.  Mrs.  Rupert  wasn't  there.  I'm  afraid  she 
won't  be  back  for  a  fortnight.  Rhoda  told  us  the  most 
heavenly  ghost  story." 

"Rhoda  Derrick?  She's  engaged  to  Colin 
Maunsel?" 

"No.  Mother  thinks  that  that's  aU  off.  Lion 
Hesel tine's  the  new  flame." 

"  Your  father's  great  ally." 

"  Yes.     Father  thought  him  very  clever." 

"  And  you — what  do  you  think?  " 

"  I?  "  PoUy  asked.  She  thought  for  a  second.  "  I 
think  he's  one  of  those  very  conscientious  men,  who  just 
aren't  geniuses  because  they  do  the  things  which  genius 
never  tries." 

"  I  haven't  seen  the  conscientious  side,"  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond  answered.  "  But  he  certainly  strikes  one  as 
being  in  earnest." 

"  Father  says  that  he  has  given  up  more  for  science 
than  any  living  man." 

"  Is  that  the  new  newspaper  scheme  ?  I  heard  of 
that.  Is  that  coming  to  anything?  " 

"  He's  been  getting  the  money  for  it.  It's  rather 
fine  of  him.  He's  been  selling  a  very  precious  family 
picture." 

"TheCorreggio?" 

"Yes.  Haven't  you  seen  the  papers?  The  papers 
have  been  full  of  it." 

"  I've  been  having  a  rest  cure,  Polly.  I  haven't 
even  read  an  amche." 

Polly  instantly  led  the  conversation  away  from  news- 
papers. She  blushed,  remembering  Drummond's  death. 
Mary  Drummond,  guessing  her  thought,  diverted  it. 

"  I've  been  in  France,  Polly.     I've  been  in  Provence, 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          149 

picking  up  old  iron  and  silver.  I've  got  treasures, 
Polly.  You  must  come  into  my  room  and  choose  a 
treasure  "  She  rose  with  the  grace  of  movement  of  a 
girl,  caught  her  friend's  arm,  and  walked  her  off  to  see 
the  spoils. 

After  Polly  had  gone,  Mary  Drummond  looked  at  the 
evening  newspaper.  As  she  had  feared,  there  was 
plenty  about  the  sale  of  the  Correggio.  The  young  man 
had  rigged  the  market.  He  had  worked  successfully 
(through  a  firm  of  dealers,  and  the  hysterical  press) 
that  "  saving  of  the  picture  to  the  nation "  which 
ensures  a  big  price.  There  were  aggravating  circum- 
stances in  this  case.  The  dealers,  astute  as  they  were, 
had  met  their  match.  They  had  brought  a  suit  against 
Lionel;  they  had  been  exposed;  and  they  had  lost 
their  case.  Lionel  had  triumphed;  but  it  was  not  a 
triumph  worthy  of  his  mother's  son. 

"  I  will  go  to  see  that  young  man/'  she  said. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THAT  evening,  Lionel  sat  alone  in  his  rooms  thinking  of 
Rhoda  and  Dora,  who  had  called  upon  him.  The 
memory  of  their  good  spirits  lived  after  them.  How 
different  the  room  seemed  with  only  the  memory  of 
them.  Dora,  careless  and  outrageous,  had  sat  to  the 
right  of  the  fire,  flicking  off  her  cigarette  ash,  in  the 
pauses  of  defiant  chaff.  Rhoda,  happy,  and  full  of 
merry  chatter,  had  sat  where  he  now  sat.  They  had 
put  a  sparkle  on  the  room.  He  had  enjoyed  their  visit. 
The  memory  of  Rhoda's  grace,  as  she  sat  forward, 
putting  up  her  veil,  touched  him.  He  thought  over 
every  detail  of  her.  There  was  nothing  about  her  which 
was  not  definitely  a  part  of  her  spirit.  She  was  all 
fastidious,  scrupulously  feminine,  yet,  in  a  shy,  though 
quite  definite  way,  she  was  original,  as  all  fine  personal 
taste  must  be.  Her  hat,  her  veil,  the  jewel  at  her  throat, 
all  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  her  dress,  were  all  revela- 
tions of  her  spirit.  And  her  spirit  was  a  revelation  of 
the  spirit  which  lies  beyond  life.  What  lies  beyond 
life  ?  A  spirit  with  moods.  A  feminine,  yielding  spirit 
who  gives  what  she  is  forced  to  give,  and  stabs  in  the 
back  when  she  has  yielded.  Something  like  that.  It 
is  enough  for  us  to  know  that  she  yields  to  the  passionate 
demand,  however  revengeful  her  knife  may  be.  Or  it 
may  be  that  life  is  merely  stupidness,  and  the  beyond 
life,  to  which  we  strain  in  fine  moments,  when  we  see 
the  image  of  it  in  a  woman's  spirit,  an  exaltation  for  all 
that  is  noble  in  us. 

He  thought  over  what  they  had  said.  He  wished  to 
resolve  into  words  what  they  had  been  to  him,  so  that 
he  might  get  to  the  truth  about  them.  His  problem 

150 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          151 

was  whether  shyness  is  a  screen  or  a  positive  quality. 
He  half  rose  from  his  chair  and  felt  along  the  mantel  for 
a  cigarette.  His  fingers  touched  an  ash  tray.  Groping 
further,  they  knocked  against  a  paper  half  tucked  under 
the  stand  where  the  cigarettes  lay.  The  stand  was  just 
out  of  reach.  Some  one  had  moved  it.  He  had  to 
stand  up  to  get  what  he  wanted.  He  lit  his  cigarette, 
with  an  eye  on  the  spill.  Glancing  down  he  noticed 
the  paper  beside  the  cigarette  stand.  It  was  a  folded 
note,  addressed  to  him.  Rhoda  must  have  slipped  it 
under  the  cigarette  stand  just  as  she  was  going.  It 
was  a  small  single  sheet  of  notepaper  folded  tightly  in 
three  folds.  It  smelt  slightly  of  lavender.  He  had 
noticed  a  lavender  sachet  among  the  litter  in  her  desk. 
It  was  addressed  in  her  elusive,  feminine  hand  to 
"  L.  Heseltine,  Esq."  He  unfolded  it,  and  read.  It 
was  dated  Friday,  above  the  neatly  embossed  address 
of  61,  Whistler  Square,  Chelsea,  S.W. 

"DEAR  LIONEL, — How  is  the  work  going?  You 
must  tell  me  on  Sunday!  How  is  the  depression? 
Better,  I  hope. — Yours  sincerely,  '  RHODA/  " 

He  read  it  through  several  times,  trying  to  get  at  the 
spirit  which  had  prompted  her  to  write.  He  realised 
that  she  had  brought  the  note  not  quite  knowing  what 
to  do  with  it.  It  had  run  a  good  chance  of  being 
dropped  into  the  fire  undelivered.  As  it  had  not  been 
so  dropped,  he  concluded  that  he  had  pleased  her  that 
afternoon.  He  wondered  what  he  had  said  to  decide 
her.  He  did  not  doubt  that  the  note  had  cost  her  much 
to  write.  The  "  Lionel  "  and  the  concluding  "  Rhoda  " 
must  have  been  a  wild  adventure  to  that  shy  soul.  The 
writing  puzzled  him.  It  must  once  have  been  the 
clear  round  hand  of  the  sprightly  but  empty  girl.  Now 
it  had  gained  in  character.  The  neatness  was  gone. 
The  writing  drooped  at  the  ends  of  words.  The  lines 


152          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

sagged  downwards  a  little.  Letters  and  syllables 
tended  to  break  away  here  and  there.  There  was 
decided  dash  in  some  of  the  capitals,  especially  in  the  L 
of  Lionel.  She  had  written  the  L  in  a  rush.  Other 
letters,  the  i's,  t's,  and  the  e's  were  irregular.  No  doubt 
they  would  have  been  better  written  had  the  writer  been 
more  sure  of  herself  at  the  time  of  writing.  Altogether, 
it  was  the  hand  of  a  woman  with  a  style  of  her  own,  and 
with  a  perception  of  style  a  good  deal  more  strong, 
perhaps,  than  her  power  of  achievement.  Meanwhile, 
more  might  be  made  of  the  character.  It  touched  him 
that  those  who  had  dealt  with  that  character  had  not 
made  more  of  it.  What  a  set  they  were.  The  father, 
with  his  billiards  and  noisy,  red-faced  rattles;  the 
outrageous,  haphazard  Dora,  famed,  in  Hamlin  legend, 
to  have  dressed  once  as  a  corner  boy,  and  to  have  taken 
her  pint  of  black  and  tan,  with  a  fill  of  Cavendish,  in 
some  low  pub  in  Chelsea;  Maunsel,  no,  Maunsel  had 
brains ;  old  Plunket. 

The  clock  struck  once  for  half  past  six.  He  went  to 
the  table  for  some  letter  paper.  He  sat  down  to 
answer  the  note.  Glowing  as  he  was  from  the  thought 
of  her,  he  found  the  letter  hard  to  write.  There  was  the 
inclination  to  say  too  much,  the  inclination  to  say 
everything.  He  burned  several  sheets.  When,  at 
last,  he  had  pleased  himself  and  the  envelope  lay  sealed 
and  addressed,  the  glow  took  hold  of  him.  He  gave 
way  to  it.  He  sat  staring  at  the  fire,  while  her  image 
floated  before  him,  catching  him  up  in  pangs.  He  was 
an  outcast,  burnt  in  the  face  by  three  continents.  She 
was  something  too  pure  and  delicate  for  a  wild  man 
like  himself.  His  nature  knelt  to  her.  The  grace  of 
her  gentle  carriage  was  enough  to  mark  her  as  some- 
thing elect  and  different.  He  looked  at  the  photo- 
graph. He  read  her  letter  through,  repeating  it. 

Outside,  on  the  landing,  some  one  was  knocking  at 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          153 

his  door.  The  knock  was  gentle  but  firm,  evidently  a 
woman's  knock,  probably  a  lady's.  He  wondered  for  a 
moment,  with  a  gush  of  delight,  if  it  could  be  the  girls 
come  back,  to  ask  him  to  join  them  in  something.  He 
waited  for  an  instant,  and  then  remembered  that  Mrs. 
Holder  had  gone.  He  would  have  to  open  the  door 
himself.  Something  strange  was  in  the  night.  It  was 
cold,  it  was  dark.  He  had  the  feeling  that  his  lamp- 
light was  a  miracle,  and  that  all  beauty  is  merely  a 
quicker  heart-beat  at  the  removal  of  darkness  and  cold. 
He  drew  the  lamp  to  the  end  of  the  table  so  that  it 
might  light  the  hall  when  he  opened  the  door.  "  Who 
can  it  be?  "  he  wondered.  He  passed  down  the  hall, 
conscious  of  an  ancestral  memory,  of  having  once  gone 
to  a  cave's  mouth  from  the  hearth  within,  to  some  long- 
forgotten  summons.  He  pressed  back  the  catch,  and 
opened  the  door.  A  woman  was  standing  there.  The 
stairs  were  villainously  lighted.  He  could  not  see  who 
it  was.  She  seemed  all  swathed  and  dim. 

"  Is  that  you,  Mr.  Heseltine?  "  said  a  voice. 

"Mrs.  Drummond?"  he  cried.  "Come  in.  Come 
in,  won't  you?  " 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  if  I  may,"  she  said.  "  Are 
you  free?  Are  you  alone ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Come  in.  I  say.  It's  turned 
jolly  cold,  hasn't  it  ?  And  how  are  you  ?  "  They  shook 
hands  in  the  hall.  Her  hand  lay  very  limply  in  his. 
She  passed  in  quickly  to  the  sitting-room,  where  she 
sat  down  and  closed  her  eyes  for  an  instant.  He 
followed  her  after  some  little  delay.  There  was  a  sharp 
draught  under  his  door.  He  stayed  to  lay  a  sandbag 
along  the  foot  of  it.  An  envelope  lay  on  the  door-mat. 
He  picked  it  up  before  returning.  It  was  the  advertise- 
ment of  GrinnelTs  Kitchen  Coal.  He  walked  back 
quickly  into  the  sitting-room. 

"  Excuse  my  keeping  you  waiting,"  he  said.     He 


154         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

looked  at  her  sharply.  She  was  dressed  in  a  mouse- 
coloured  corduroy  with  a  grey  fur  muff  and  boa.  She 
looked  worn  and  anxious.  "  Have  you  dined?"  he 
asked. 

"  No/'  she  said,  smiling.     "  Not  yet." 

"  Well/'  he  said.  "  Shall  we  go  out  and  dine? 
D'you  know  the  Cheshire  Cheese  ?  Or  would  you  prefer 
Simpson's  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure  that  I  ought  to  dine  with  you," 
she  said,  "  till  we've  had  our  talk."  She  seemed  ill  at 
ease  about  something. 

"  At  this  end  of  town  one  can't  talk  business  without 
food,"  he  said.  "  At  the  other  end  one  can't  do  it 
without  drink.  I'm  sorry  I've  got  nothing  here:  but 
I  generally  dine  out."  He  knit  his  brows  at  her  suddenly 
with  quickened  interest.  Had  the  cold  upset  her,  or 
did  she  feel  that  she  had  done  something  frightful  in 
calling  on  a  lonely  man?  Woman  is  an  arsenal  of 
potential  pain.  He  ran  over  the  possibilities  swiftly. 
It  couldn't  be  the  cold.  It  couldn't  be  nervousness. 
No.  He  wasn't  sure  about  nervousness.  He  himself 
was  a  Bohemian,  used  to  frank  intercourse;  but  he  was 
always  being  startled  by  the  terrors  of  those  less  free. 
She  was  upset  by  something.  There  were  some  bottles 
of  drugs  on  his  book-shelf.  Among  them  was  a  bottle  of 
eau-de-cologne.  He  reached  it  down  and  dug  out  the 
cork  with  a  penknife. 

"  This  room's  too  hot  for  you,  after  the  cold,"  he  said. 
"  Have  some  eau-de-cologne  on  your  handkerchief." 
She  refused  the  refreshment,  smiling. 

"  No,  thanks  very  much,"  she  said.  "  I've  come  to 
speak  to  you  on  a  very  delicate  matter,  and  ...  Of 
course  in  coming  to  you  I  put  aside  all  my  weapons. 
So  may  we  talk  .  .  .  talk  without  any  considerations 
of  me  as  one  entitled  to — as  a  womin  in  short!  Will 
you  treat  me  just  as  an  intelligence?  " 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          155 

Lionel's  look  became  a  shade  more  cautious.  "  Oh, 
yes,"  he  said  frankly.  He  wondered  what  she  wanted. 
What  did  women  want,  anyhow?  He  steeled  himself 
to  "  some  damned  talk  of  idealism." 

"  But  you  must  dine  first,"  she  said.  "  Will  you  show 
me  one  of  these  city  taverns?  Or  are  women  not 
admitted?  They  date,  don't  they,  from  a  time  when 
men  at  dinner  were  not  a  fit  sight  for  ladies  ?  " 

"  They  date  from  the  good  old  days,"  said  Lionel. 
"  Stap  my  vitals." 

"  You  men  led  a  fine  manly  life  then,"  she  said,  musing. 

"  No.  The  life  led  us,"  he  corrected.  "  No  life  was 
'  led '  in  England  till  Lord  Lister's  time.  Fools  and 
blind,  Mrs.  Drummond.  And  a  heritage  of  exhausted 
nerves  for  us  sons  of  light,  their  succeeders.  Lord, 
Lord,  if  we'd  half  the  vitality  those  beasts  destroyed 
for  us.  Think  of  their  vitality.  It  was  monstrous.  It 
was  bestial.  They  couldn't  even  converse  like  human 
beings  till  they  were  drunk.  They  could  only  shout 
'  Yoicks,'  or  '  Zounds,'  or  '  Damme,'  or  some  other 
foolery.  They  were  like  great  joltering  bulls.  All 
force.  They  could  only  bellow.  Human  life  was 
impossible  for  them  till  they  were  drunk.  They  had  to 
wine  their  force  down  to  human  strength,  just  as  we 
water  whisky.  Good  Lord,  all  that  potential  beauty 
drowned  by  port.  The  waste  of  it.  And  we  have  the 
hand-twitch  and  the  tremor.  We.  We.  We  with 
our  radium  and  the  airship,  and  Major  Ross." 

"  We're  being  just  as  wasteful,"  she  answered,  stand- 
ing up.  "  Think  of  all  the  nervous  energy  frictioned 
off  by  speed.  We  don't  drown  it  with  port!  but  we 
waste  it  in  our  endeavours  to  run  away  from  life. 
Every  generation  tries  to  escape  from  its  essential 
quality.  That  is  why  Athens  fought  Syracuse  instead 
of  subsidising  Socrates.  There  was  a  lot  of  solid  thought 
in  the  eighteenth  century." 


iS6         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  They  built  a  heavy  tomb  for  Truth.  But  come." 
He  opened  the  door  for  her.  She  passed  out  gravely 
smiling  at  some  far-away  image  of  far-away  solid  philo- 
sophers, arguing  from  Paley  after  monstrous  imbibi- 
tions of  punch.  To  hunt  over  undrained  clay,  dine 
monstrously,  drink  guzzlingly,  get  hot  about  Church, 
and  believe  in  Paley:  there  was  a  way  of  life  for  one. 
We  can't  do  any  one  thing  of  the  five. 

The  couple  dined  at  the  Cheshire  Cheese.  They 
rallied  each  other  about  eighteenth-century  science, 
art,  life,  criticism,  war,  death,  all  the  wonderful  time. 
Lionel,  with  his  fingering  for  style,  dwelt  on  Goldsmith's 
verse,  on  something  exquisitely  said  in  Shenstone, 
something  about  jasmine.  He  laid  precise  touch  on 
De  Mandeville,  that  strange,  vivid  mind  who  wrote  such 
prose.  He  sparkled  on  Morogues.  They  sparred  about 
Hogarth.  Lionel  proposed  a  theory  that  all  the  great 
men  of  the  great  time,  the  essentially  English  time,  had 
O's  in  their  names,  strongly  sounded.  He  instanced 
Boswell,  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  Hogarth,  Reynolds, 
Smollett,  Gainsborough.  And  from  this  he  passed  to 
the  fantasy  that  an  0  in  one's  name  is  necessary  to 
success  in  life.  It  made  all  the  difference  between 
Byng  and  Nelson.  No  man  called  Bong  could  have 
resisted  the  impulse  to  close  action.  Life  is  an  impulse 
to  broad  vowels.  That  is  why  the  west  of  England 
is  so  healthy.  She  laughed.  There  was  a  charm  in 
Lionel's  whimsicality  which  touched  her.  It  gave  her 
a  sense  of  the  loneliness  in  which  the  man  had  lived. 
Discussion  arose,  was  it  there,  or  in  another  place,  that 
the  Quaker  lady  sat  on  Dr.  Johnson's  knee?  And 
could  any  Quaker  lady,  and  any  literary  knee  of  to-day, 
either  sit  or  tacitly  approve  such  session,  here  and  now, 
in  the  year  of  grace,  company  being  present?  Some- 
thing has  changed  in  us.  The  female  soul  is  a  much 
more  subtle  thing.  The  male  knee  and  Paley  no  longer 
suffice  her. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          157 

After  dinner,  they  recrossed  Fleet  Street  to  the  flat. 
The  street  was  beginning  work  now.  The  great  upper 
windows  were  alight.  Clerks  going  west  on  the  tops  of 
omnibuses  looked  in  on  the  clever  heads  bowed  over 
the  desks,  twisting  the  half  true  to  the  wholly  partial. 
Galleys  and  flimsies  were  coming  in.  On  the  side  walks 
the  journalists  were  hurrying.  They  were  very  like 
each  other.  They  had  the  same  keenness,  and  thinness 
and  want,  the  same  glasses,  the  same  hair,  or  want  of 
hair.  What  would  they  have  been  a  century  ago? 
What  could  have  satisfied  them?  •  What  would  life 
have  made  of  them?  Something,  no  doubt:  for  they 
were  many.  The  taverns  were  full  of  them.  A  fine 
freight  of  intellect  has  been  wrecked  in  the  Fleet  Street 
taverns.  Secret  people  were  creeping  out  to  editors, 
to  offer  "  special  information/'  mostly  false,  for  what- 
ever the  editors  would  offer.  Telegraph  messengers 
dodged  about,  with  that  curious  see-saw  of  the  body 
which  jerks  them  past  people  right  and  left.  Newsboys 
slid  past  on  bicycles,  dispensing  papers  to  running 
friends.  There  was  a  hurry  and  a  jostle,  a  sense  of  dirt 
and  discomfort,  a  sense  of  the  machine  being  too  old 
for  its  work,  a  sense  of  the  want  of  light.  Omnibuses 
loitered  past  at  a  jog.  Motors  slowed  down  to  the  same 
pace.  The  clumsy  beast  of  London  traffic  dragged  its 
length  along  in  a  pageant  of  stupidity.  Men  stood 
outside  the  Temple  entrance,  staring  straight  in  front 
of  them.  They  had  the  air  of  waiting  for  some  one.  At 
times  they  took  brief  turns  up  or  down.  Then  they 
halted  again  and  fronted,  staring  straight  ahead, 
vacantly,  with  common  faces,  and  eyes  glazed.  They 
were  waiting  for  the  waitresses  of  the  tea  shops  down 
the  street. 

As  they  passed  through  the  doorway  Lionel  thought 
of  Rhoda.  He  felt  how  sharply  she  contrasted  with  the 
woman  at  his  side.  Mrs.  Drummond's  grave  beauty, 


158         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

which  looked  so  worn  and  old  in  certain  lights,  had 
nothing  to  offer  him.  It  was  attractive,  as  mystery  is, 
but  it  offered  nothing.  He  was  in  a  mood  of  wanting. 
And  Rhoda's  face  offered,  and  allured.  The  youth  in 
her  was  crying  out  to  him.  His  own  youth,  repressed 
so  long  in  Earth's  wilds,  where  youth  is  only  one  spear 
more  in  the  struggle,  flamed  out  from  its  bonds  to  answer 
her.  What  was  the  sense  of  the  struggle,  the  watch  and 
the  clutch  with  death,  the  hell,  the  glare  and  the  mad- 
ness, when  life  was  tripping  past  in  this  quick  beauty, 
vivid  with  blood?  He  looked  at  Mrs.  Drummond  as 
they  passed  the  lamp.  His  thought  was,  "  Suppose  you 
were  she.  Suppose  we  were  going  home  together." 
Something  in  her  face  checked  the  supposition.  Their 
eyes  met  fairly.  Her  grave,  beautiful  face  seemed, 
for  that  instant,  a  nobler  challenge  to  his  manhood. 
It  offered  nothing.  It  asked  a  great  deal  first.  That 
given,  it  might  give  much,  it  might  give.  .  .  .  He 
paused  in  his  thought  to  ask  what  it  might  give.  The 
answer  rang  in  his  head.  Wisdom.  The  word  for  an 
instant  took  on  a  significance  of  beauty.  Wisdom. 
The  new  thing  in  the  world.  The  topmost  apple,  the 
key,  the  flower.  Wisdom.  The  something  which  has 
never  been,  ruling  at  last  in  life.  'Life,  even  London 
life,  even  country-town  life,  suddenly  beautiful,  a  flower 
of  praise,  glowing.  Then,  the  next  moment,  came  the 
thought  that  wisdom  loses  half  her  power  by  coming  in 
a  modest  form.  Wisdom  is  less  attractive  than  that 
half  of  her  called  Beauty.  Men  will  follow  nothing 
which  promises  no  intoxication.  Wisdom  cannot  be  so 
very  wise  after  all,  or,  womanlike,  she  would  preserve 
that  attraction,  that  fillip  to  the  blood,  to  make  men 
seek  her.  He  thought  how  many  fine  women  must 
lose  nine-tenths  of  their  power  from  their  scorn  of  using 
the  tenth.  All  the  thoughts  passed  quickly.  She  was 
saying  something  in  a  voice  which  rang  somehow  with 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          159 

an  inner  nervousness.  Something  about  the  ring  of 
footsteps  on  the  paving  having  a  "  disembodied " 
sound,  as  the  echoes  robbed  the  original  noise  of  definite- 
ness,  and  sent  the  ghosts  of  footsteps  clopping  along  the 
walls  on  all  four  sides  of  the  court.  He  agreed,  wonder- 
ing what  their  talk  was  to  be,  when  they  sat  at  his 
fireside.  He  was  judging  her  as  not  attractive,  as 
having  consciously  put  from  her  that  quality,  so  subtle- 
sweet,  which  makes  man  Dante  or  Tom  Jones  at  the 
woman's  will.  In  the  gloom  of  the  passage,  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  so  murderous  in  their  twilight  of  bad  gas, 
she  paused  for  an  instant  to  gather  her  skirts  about  her. 
The  grace  of  the  bent  head,  the  femininity  of  the  act, 
and  the  faint  perfume  shaken  from  the  garment,  touched 
him  again  with  the  longing  that  she  were  that  other, 
longing  that  was  almost  persuasion  that  she  was  that 
other.  He  looked  at  her  tenderly  as  she  climbed  the 
stairs.  Her  dress  rustled.  The  faint  gracious  perfume 
seemed  a  part  of  her,  as  much  her  as  her  mind,  an 
emanation  from  her.  Sharply  it  came  to  him  that  she 
was  not  that  other.  They  were  climbing  to  his  rooms 
to  talk  business,  to  dispel,  with  business,  some  of  the 
images  of  that  other,  which  were  still  beautiful  where 
she  had  haunted,  only  a  few  hours  before.  And  youth, 
the  beautiful  thing,  dies  in  a  day,  and  never  returns. 
And  business  had  had  him  in  her  clutch,  ever  since  that 
day  in  India,  when  he  was  only  eighteen.  He  had  never 
been  young.  He  had  never  known  youth,  never  known 
beauty,  never  known  love.  And  what  were  power,  and 
a  knowledge  of  some  of  the  lies  of  life,  to  the  face  in  the 
dark,  the  blinding  of  the  loosed  hair,  the  murmur,  the 
touch,  the  glow,  the  fires  of  extinction  in  communion. 
That  was  life.  At  present  he  was  getting  old,  going  up 
ill-lit  stone  stairs  to  talk  business,  in  a  world  which 
doesn't  come  again  to  any  of  the  sons  of  Adam. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs,  outside  his  door,  she  waited 


160          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

for  him,  her  head  thrown  back  a  little,  looking  at  him 
with  a  regard  which  saw  enough  of  him  to  be  maternal. 
She  was  thinking  that  if  this  fine  young  man  had  been 
her  son,  she  would  have  given  him  a  more  real  gentle- 
ness. She  would  have  sacrificed  even  some  of  the  mind 
to  that.  He  was  too  selfish,  not  from  any  desire  for 
self-indulgence,  but  from  a  never-checked  leaning  to- 
wards the  pitiless  in  thought.  She  felt  a  pity  for  him. 
Life  must  have  been  stern  to  him.  Life  had  been 
womanless  to  him.  There  had  been  nothing  in  his  life 
to  make  him  think  of  others.  She  had  a  sad  surmise 
that  marriage  would  be  something  for  which  his  life  had 
not  prepared  him.  She  felt,  as  he  searched  his  pockets 
for  his  key,  muttering  in  pretended  wrath,  that  he  had 
made  himself  a  Compleat  Bachelor,  and  that  the  awaken- 
ing from  that  state,  into  that  of  commencing  husband, 
would  be  painful  to  those  near  him.  In  selfishness  and 
generosity  are  all  the  potential  tragedies.  Capacity  for 
enjoyment  is  often  mistaken  for  generosity  by  its 
possessors.  His  selfishness  was  unsuspected  by  him. 
She  had  always  felt  a  tenderness  towards  him.  He  had 
charm.  It  was  about  him.  It  was  curiously  in  his 
hands.  It  was  in  the  poise  of  his  head  when  he  turned 
to  speak.  Some  movements  of  the  charming  are  like 
caresses.  The  beauty  of  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  the 
mouth  and  chin,  was  marred  by  his  scar.  But  there 
was  always  that  engaging  enigmatic  smile.  It  was  a 
charming  clever  face,  in  spite  of  the  scar.  The  tan 
and  the  heat  puckers  gave  it  manliness.  It  was  only 
when  one  came  to  talk  intimately  with  Lionel  that  one 
touched  that  vein  of  pitilessness  which  kept  him  from 
growing  up.  She  ran  over  in  her  mind  some  of  the 
women  who  might  bring  him  to  something  finer,  giving 
his  will  gentleness,  and  his  mind  sympathy.  Know- 
ledge of  what  she  meant  to  say  to  him  clashed  for  a 
moment  in  her  mind  with  the  question  whether  it  were 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          161 

not  a  man's  task,  whether  this  fine  steel  intellect  were 
not  better  crossed  with  a  weapon  of  the  same  temper. 
He  opened  the  door.  The  flat  smelt  of  paraffin. 

"  The  lamp's  smoking/'  said  Lionel.  "  I  say.  I 
say."  He  opened  the  sitting-room  door  for  her.  The 
lamp  was  smoking  from  a  blackened  spire  in  which 
flame  gleamed.  He  advanced  swiftly  and  put  it  out, 
then  lit  the  candles  on  the  mantelpiece.  He  opened 
the  windows.  Filaments  floated  elusively.  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond  was  acutely  conscious  of  black  oily  threads 
on  the  books  on  the  table.  The  smoke  volleyed  and 
showered  down  in  its  effort  to  roll  out.  It  took  on  the 
movements  of  horses  at  a  gate.  Rolls  of  it  backed  and 
passaged  while  others  spurring  up,  paused,  baulked,  or 
took  it.  At  times  there  was  a  general  swerving,  a 
plunging  of  heads  and  drawing  back,  before  the  rear 
of  the  cavalry  forced  the  front  to  re-form. 

"  Lamps  are,"  said  Lionel.  "  We'll  open  all  the 
doors.  That'll  make  a  draught.  We'll  go  out  and  sit 
on  the  stairs  a  minute,  till  it  clears." 

"Is  your  manageress  gone  for  the  day?"  she 
asked. 

"Mrs.  Holder?  Yes."  She  was  thinking  of  the 
cheerlessness  of  bachelor  life,  and  of  the  possible  rash- 
ness with  which  a  young  man,  no  longer  fully  occupied 
with  work,  would  make  his  escape  from  it.  He  brought 
out  chairs.  They  sat  on  the  landing  together. 

"What  was  it  you  wanted  to  see  me  about?"  he 
asked.  "Is  it  anything  you  can  say  here,  or  will  you 
wait  till  we  can  go  in  ?  " 

"Am  I  keeping  you?"  she  asked.  "Keeping  you 
from  work?  " 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  I  never  work  now,  because  in  a 
sense  I'm  always  working.  Aren't  you  cold  here, 
though?"  In  his  mind  he  was  tucking  a  rug  round 
Rhoda,  taking  thanks  from  her  eyes.  Somehow  the 


1 62          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

longing  that  she  were  Rhoda  gave  him  a  glow  of  gentle- 
ness towards  her,  as  though  she  were  truly  she. 

"  Wait  here,  will  you  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I'll  get  a  duster 
and  clean  up  for  you.  The  room'll  be  so  filthy." 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  she  said.  "  Men  are  no  good  at 
cleaning  up." 

"Aren't  they?"  he  answered,  turning  to  rend  her. 
"  You  should  have  seen  my  ward  at  Travancore.  Dirt. 
Men' 11  make  war  on  dirt  where  women  won't  even  go. 
You  know,  Mrs.  Drummond,  all  this  talk  of  women  is 
unphilosophic.  Women  are  human  beings  just  like 
men,  exactly  like,  except  that  their  own  silly  folly  has 
made  them  less  healthy  as  animals.  And  as  they're 
like  men  in  big  things,  so  they're  like  them  in  little. 
And  the  essence  of  the  human  being  is  that  he  won't 
do  anything  unless  he  can  get  something  by  it.  The 
something  women  want  to  get  is  a  personal  something, 
a  man's  good  opinion,  or  a  finger  (or  both  hands)  in 
the  pie  of  a  man's  life.  And  a  dainty  dish  they  make 
of  said  pie  when  they  succeed.  Men  are  much  less 
selfish  than  women,  and  therefore  much  less  clear  about 
what  they  want.  But  the  thing  men  want  is  a  social 
something."  By  this  time  he  was  routing  in  what  he 
called  the  boatswain's  locker,  in  which  Mrs.  Holder  kept 
her  dusters. 

"  I  don't  believe,"  he  concluded  lamely,  "  in  this 
sentiment  about  women.  Women  are  as  much  human 
beings  and  as  much  wild  beasts  as  men.  They  ought  to 
be  treated  as  such.  Here's  a  duster  .  .  .  good.  All 
this  rot  about  chivalry  degrades  you." 

"Chivalry  or  'rot  about  chivalry'?"  she  asked, 
taking  her  allotted  duster.  They  began  work  upon  the 
table. 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  matters  one  way  or  the  other," 
he  answered.  "  One  is  a  name  for  humbug  and  the 
other  is  humbug  itself.  Good  lord,  if  I  were  a  woman, 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          163 

Fd  box  the  ears  of  any  man  who  offered  to  take  me  down 
to  dinner.  I  say.  Don't  you  do  this.  You'll  get  as 
black  as  a  sweep.  Besides,  it's  my  chore."  He  finished 
the  dusting  and  led  the  way  to  his  bathroom,  where  they 
heated  water,  and  shared  it.  Mrs.  Drummond  was  a 
frank  comrade.  She  chaffed  him  about  his  rough  man's 
towels  which  were  like  strigils  to  the  flesh.  He  felt 
the  charm  of  her  comradeship,  making  the  shrewd, 
characteristic  mental  note  that  she  must  have  been 
much  with  men.  The  momentary  lifting  of  her  gravity 
made  him  feel  the  depth  of  the  hidden  character.  He 
looked  at  her  with  quicker  interest.  What  had  given 
her  that  tragic  beauty:  that  look  of  fathomless  gentle- 
ness? Surely  not  Drummond  alone.  Life  had  meant 
much  to  her.  Life  had  hurt  her  and  been  a  joy.  Fire 
had  burnt  in  her,  fire  had  burnt  her.  He  was  sensible 
that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  some  one  very  rare,  very 
fine.  But  she  was  an  intellect,  he  felt,  that  finest  thing, 
an  intellect  in  a  woman's  shape.  He  looked  forward  to 
his  grappling  with  that.  But,  curiously,  as  will  happen 
to  a  man  in  love,  things  in  her  face,  tones  in  her  voice, 
sharpened  in  his  mind  the  memory  of  Rhoda's  face  and 
voice,  perhaps  by  contrast,  perhaps  by  some  subtler, 
stronger  faculty  of  imagination.  The  memory  of  Rhoda 
came  back  in  a  gush  of  mental  pleasure.  He  would  have 
been  glad  to  sit  alone  all  night  brooding  on  that  memory. 
Alone.  Solitude  is  rarely  a  joy:  but  when  the  mind 
desires  solitude  the  desire  is  a  passion,  and  the  delight 
of  it,  when  granted,  ecstasy.  There  are  secret  thoughts 
which  cannot  become  people  in  the  mind  till  the  world 
is  away.  All  the  talk  and  routine  of  the  world,  all  the 
things  of  the  world  which  are  so  much  less  real  than  the 
mind's  things,  how  they  can  obscure  and  madden  the 
inner  vision.  All  this  talk  and  all  this  fever.  One  can 
be  with  Christ  in  Paradise  merely  by  a  closing  of  the 
eyes.  Many  beauties  masquerade  as  that.  Looking 


1 64         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

back  on  a  life  of  hungers,  so  much  wears  the  mask  of 
the  Desired.  Now  a  woman,  now  a  post,  now  money, 
anon  merely  physical  bread,  anon  some  passion  for 
understanding.  The  wants  are  the  soul  expressed. 
One  must  be  careful.  Careful  indeed;  for  a  want  is 
made  by  all  the  energy  of  the  soul.  It  is  the  one  thing 
terribly  alive.  No  man  can  gauge  the  spiritual  force  of 
a  want.  But  he  or  she  who  truly  wants,  sends  out  into 
the  universe  a  greedy,  aching  thing,  something  ruthless 
and  untamed,  which  can  enter  into  people's  hearts. 
And  after  walking  the  world,  shaping  men's  lives  to  its 
end,  the  want  fulfils  itself,  strangely  sometimes,  some- 
times tragically,  but  fully.  There  is  no  real  want  ever 
sent  out  into  the  world  but  fulfils  itself,  working  in  the 
dark,  perhaps  long  after  its  maker  has  remade  life. 
Perhaps  at  a  time  when  the  fulfilment  is  a  hell.  All 
fulfilment  is  hell  to  some  one.  But  the  fulfilment  comes. 
In  this  mystery  of  life,  which  shows  itself  more  strange 
and  more  beautiful  each  day,  man  should  be  careful  of 
so  great  spiritual  strength.  And  having  received  a 
grace,  let  each  think  of  old  longings,  and  welcome  the 
gifts  they  bring.  Our  past  brings  gifts  to  us  daily.  All 
this  joy  and  agony.  And  you  who  sit  at  desks,  at  the 
alchemy  which  is  never  out  of  date,  bringing  forth 
number  and  measure  out  of  the  changing,  changeless 
matter  from  which  the  alchemist  makes  gold,  a  crumb 
in  a  generation,  for  the  universe  to  share,  take  heed 
that  your  wants,  your  Teachings  and  strainings  to 
create  life,  or  an  accepted  shadow  of  life,  bring  to  you, 
in  the  world  of  men  and  women,  only  the  noble  and 
the  beautiful.  Man  cannot  sow  in  vain.  He  who  sows 
reaps.  From  a  want,  fulfilment.  From  an  image, 
reality.  According  to  the  seed  sown. 

They  settled  into  chairs  at  opposite  sides  of  the  fire. 
He  smiled  at  her.  She  smiled. 

"  You  wanted  to  speak  to  me?  "  he  said. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          165 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  But  I'm  not  sure,  after  all,  that 
I  will  say  what  I  was  going  to  say.  Instead,  I'll  ask 
you  something,  a  favour.  I  share  a  cottage  at  Coin 
St.  Michael  with  Kitty  Minot.  You'll  know  her  water- 
colours  I  expect?  " 

"  A  hill  in  the  rain,  with  gorse  bushes,  and  the  gorse 
in  blossom  ?  " 

"  Gorse  always  is  in  blossom." 

"Well.  That's  the  sort  of  thing  she  does.  I  re- 
member her  picture.  What  was  it  called,  '  A  Squelch- 
ing Day  '  ?  A  very  moist  picture^  All  wet  heath  and 
rain  pools." 

"  Yes.     That's  the  sort  of  thing,"  she  said. 

"  I  liked  the  picture,"  said  Lionel,  "  because  it  was  so 
jolly  wet." 

"  What  I  was  going  to  suggest,"  she  said,  still  smiling, 
"  was  this.  Could  you  come  down  to  Com  St.  Michael 
this  week-end.  We  could  have  a  quiet  talk  then,  in  the 
country." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said.     "  I'm  engaged/' 

"  Next  week?" 

He  shook  his  head.  He  was  hoping  to  spend  that 
Sunday  with  Rhoda. 

"  The  week  after,  then?  " 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said.  "  Yes.  The  week  after,  I 
shall  be  delighted."  Rhoda  was  to  be  in  Shropshire 
that  week.  She  had  talked  of  it  that  afternoon. 

"  That  will  be  very  nice,"  said  Mrs.  Drummond. 
"  One  can  talk  better  in  the  country."  She  paused 
with  that  momentary  access  of  shyness  which  checks 
so  many  beginning  intimacies.  It  comes  with  a  sudden 
consciousness  of  possible  mental  attitudes  towards  the 
hitherto  accepted.  It  comes  to  remind  the  forgetting 
of  the  mesh  of  sex,  which  is  about  us  always,  ready  to 
trip,  whenever  the  pulse  quickens.  Some  such  con- 
sciousness made  her  suddenly  shy  now.  It  gave  a 


1 66          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

constraint  to  her  voice.  She  was  realising  what  it  was 
that  she  wished  to  say  to  him,  and  how  intensely  personal 
and  intimate  their  talk  would  be.  No  woman  needs  to 
be  reminded  of  the  danger  of  stirring  a  man's  soul.  Life 
'is  darkened  by  funerals  of  friendship,  those  shuttings  of 
the  door  upon  the  good  because  the  perfect  may  not  be. 
Men  should  be  as  scrupulous  in  friendship  as  in  love. 
They  should  set  the  standard  high  up  on  the  peaks,  in 
the  sun.  Every  failure  in  the  friendship  between  man 
and  woman  lowers  the  currency  of  intimacy  between 
the  world's  two  halves.  Every  such  lowering  makes 
the  understanding  harder,  the  beautiful  thing  more 
difficult.  Humanity  was  cursed  indeed  by  that  first 
mandate  to  "  be  fruitful  and  multiply/'  The  second 
mandate,  "to  replenish  the  earth,  and  subdue  it,"  still 
waits  man's  liberation  from  the  first. 

"  There  is  much  I  want  to  say  to  you,"  she  said.  She 
was  standing  by  the  mantelpiece,  not  looking  at  him. 
Her  hand  lifted  and  put  back  the  little  Indian  silver 
objects  on  the  tray.  She  sensed  that  the  emotion  in 
her  voice  made  him  sympathetic. 

"  Much,"  she  went  on,  "  which  I  should  find  it  hard 
to  say  here.  You  realise,  I  think,  how  hard  it  is  for  a 
woman  to  make  any  sort  of  intimate  appeal  to  a  man, 
or  even  to  speak  to  him  of  things  which  may  mean  much 
to  her.  You  know,  Mr.  Heseltine,  you  are  not  quite  a 
stranger  to  me.  We  met  years  ago.  On  a  day  which 
was  rather  beautiful  to  me.  And  I  would  like  some  day 
to  talk  to  you  about  your  mother,  who  was  a  very  rare 
person.  But  it  is  not  about  personal  matters  that  I 
want  most  to  talk  to  you.  Though  life  is  made  up  of 
them,  in  a  way.  The  big  is  so  bound  up  with  the  little. 
I  want  to  have  leave  to  speak  to  you,  as  the  counsel  for 
all  that  side  of  life  to  which  you  have  turned  your  back. 
You  know,  probably,  that  you  have  a  terrible  power. 
Intellectual  power  knows  itself.  Emotional  power  very 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          167 

rarely  does.  You  have  the  power — I  don't  say  this  to 
flatter  you,  but  to  frighten  you — you  have  the  power  to 
destroy  a  great  deal  which  you  value  more  than  you 
think.  At  the  bottom  of  your  heart,  you  care  a  good 
deal.  I  would  like  to  say  to  you,  this: — Life  is  so  very 
much  more  than  a  handling  of  affairs.  So  very  much 
more  even  than  the  destruction  of  personal  enemies  and 
antipathies.  There  is  a  danger  of  your  sacrificing  much 
that  ought  to  be  precious  to  you  (and  yet  will  be  precious 
to  you,  when  it  is  too  late,  perhaps),  to  that  great 
machine  which  you  have  the  power — the  wonderful 
power — of  building.  You  see,  Mr.  Heseltine,  I'm  speak- 
ing to  you  now  as  a  woman  very  rarely  does  speak  to 
any  man  not  intimately  tied  to  her.  I  did  not  mean  to 
speak  But  I  have  come  to  realise  your  power." 

She  paused.  He  was  listening  sympathetically. 
One's  self  is  a  pleasant  text;  much  may  be  said  upon 
it.  He  was  trying  to  cross  her  subject  to  her  object. 
The  spiritually  minded  interested  and  puzzled  him. 
He  guessed  the  coming  of  criticism  and  an  appeal. 
Prayer  was  distasteful  to  him.  "  In  a  civilised  com- 
munity/' he  thought,  "  prayer  of  all  kinds  is  an 
impotence  of  the  will  to  do.  The  only  prayer  to  be 
regarded  is  the  hour's  creative  thought  before  action." 
A  smile  moved  upon  his  lips.  It  was  the  smile  of  a 
schoolboy  who  has  done  some  wrong  of  which  the 
cleverness  exceeds  the  sin.  It  was  more  expressive  of 
something  unripened  in  his  nature  than  many  speeches. 

"  I  like  you  for  speaking,"  he  said.  Swiftly  with  all 
the  rare  gentle  charm  which  he  kept  so  strictly  from 
the  world,  he  added,  "  Dear  woman."  It  was  gently 
said.  It  was  his  tribute  to  something  genuinely  felt. 

"  You  are  like  your  mother  sometimes,"  she  answered. 
She  paused;  much  touched.  There  was  something 
very  like  his  mother  in  that  eager,  quick  look.  There 
was  something  feminine  in  his  grace  and  in  the  beauty 


1 68         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

of  his  deference.  When  he  liked  his  friend,  his  manners 
were  the  fine  manners  of  a  woman,  beautiful  to  watch, 
delicate  with  tact.  Seeing  this  side  of  him  made  her 
knowledge  of  the  other  side  more  painful. 

"  You  have  got  rid  of  your  Correggio,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  He  smiled  his  schoolboy  smile.  To 
have  triumphed  over  a  crafty  intellect  at  watch  to  cheat 
him,  was  pleasant.  The  success  of  that  intricate  game, 
played  out  upon  men's  minds,  almost  like  war,  was 
flattering.  He  regretted  the  loss  of  the  picture,  now 
and  then.  It  had  suited  his  liking  for  distinction.  The 
red  chalk  drawing  by  Alfred  Stevens,  which  hung  in  its 
place,  did  not  come  home  so  strongly,  did  not  rest  him, 
did  not  attract  him.  The  Heseltine  Correggio  had  given 
a  majesty  to  life.  Being  gone,  it  gave  the  power  to 
control  life,  a  responsibility,  not  a  grace. 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on.  "  Did  you  hear  about  that?  I 
haven't  seen  you,  have  I?  Or  did  I  tell  you?  There 
was  much  in  that  negotiation  which  was  not  told." 

"  You  triumphed,  I  believe?  " 

"  I  protected  myself.  They  behaved  shamefully 
about  it.  They  are  a  generation  of  vipers.  I  was  in- 
clined to  say,  '  The  poor  and  the  deceitful  man  meet 
together:  the  Lord  lighteneth  both  their  eyes/  The 
brazenness  of  them.  They  are.  They  really  are.  I 
didn't  feel  afraid  for  England  till  I  had  that  deal  with 
them.  Machiavelli.  I  don't  know  that  I  mind  people 
being  Machiavelli.  One  has  to  be  that  to  live  when 
brains  reach  a  certain  pitch  of  sharpness.  Machiavelli 
as  a  thief  I  can  circumvent.  But  Machiavelli  as  a 
pew-opener,  that  is  what  those  people  are.  Pew- 
openers  to  the  rich.  I  told  them  so.  I  heard  young 
Lazarus  say  something  under  his  breath  about  my  being 
an  aesthete.  It  was  his  way  of  assuring  himself  of 
Jahveh's  ultimate  help." 

Mrs.    Drummond   smiled   sadly.     "  Mr.    Heseltine," 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          169 

she  asked.  "  I  would  like  to  ask  you  another  question. 
Have  you  started  a  paper?  " 

He  looked  at  her,  searching  her  face.  He  wore  a 
mask  of  schoolboy  humour  impossible  to  pierce. 

"  Yes/'  he  answered.  "  Yes.  I'm  starting  a  paper. 
But  I'd  rather  that  shouldn't  be  known."  A  sense  of 
the  beauty  of  the  colour  in  her  face  gave  his  words  a 
tenderness. 

"  That  must  be  between  ourselves,"  he  said.  He 
paused  for  an  instant.  "  Are  you  sure  that  you  won't 
have  your  talk  with  me  now?  "  he  asked.  "  You  have 
a  look  of  being  about  to  be  very  merciful." 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I've  planned  it  all  out  now, 
exactly  where  we'll  talk.  The  stile  we'll  sit  on,  and 
what  we  shall  see.  People  ought  to  be  more  careful  of 
the  places  where  they  talk  important  things.  Life  is 
very  much  an  art.  Women  know  that  better  than 
men,  perhaps.  One  ought  to  do  everything  '  as  per- 
fectly as  God  made  the  world.'  " 

"  That's  not  very  perfect,"  he  put  in. 

"  Well,  then,  as  perfectly  as  women  would  like  to 
make  the  world.  One  ought  to  arrange  all  things, 
meetings,  talks,  even  ordinary  talks,  so  that  they  may 
be  perfect  memories.  If  I  were  a  man  engaged  in 
business  I  would  make  business  a  fine  art,  by  bringing 
an  intense  thought  to  the  method.  So  when  you  come 
to  Coin  St.  Michael,  Mr.  Heseltine,  you  must  try  to 
catch  the  perfect  memory.  Even  if  we  disagree."  She 
stood  up  and  set  her  veil,  becoming  twenty  years 
younger.  "  Of  course,  no  mirror,"  she  said,  smiling. 
He  helped  her  with  her  coat.  Somehow  the  fragrance 
of  the  coat,  fragrant  even  in  London,  where  the  air 
taints  all  things  with  the  smells  of  the  stable  or  the 
garage,  was  delicate  to  him,  like  the  touch  of  something 
feminine.  He  felt  rather  more  than  the  critic  in  her. 
She  was  a  charming  woman,  not  only  the  woman's  intel- 


1 70         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

lect.  "  Women  give  you  back  your  own  thought,  in 
long  clothes/'  he  thought.  Her  gloved  hand  was  warm 
in  his  for  a  second. 

"  I've  done  something  wrong,  and  you're  not  pleased," 
he  said. 

"  Don't  think  that,"  she  said.  "  But  come  to  Coin 
St.  Michael  the  week  after  next." 

"  I  shall  look  forward  to  our  talk,"  he  said. 

"  You're  very  like  your  mother,"  she  said,  quickly, 
catching  a  momentary  likeness  from  an  accident  of 
light  or  gesture.  "  She  had  just  your  eyes." 

"I'm  not  really  like,"  he  answered.  "This  is 
mother.  Here."  He  showed  a  photograph.  She 
looked  at  it  with  a  hungriness  of  interest  which  made 
him  wonder. 

"  I  wonder  how  much  of  her  personality  was  sown  in 
you,"  she  said.  "  I  believe  that  that  is  the  only  certain 
crop  in  this  world.  Personality.  You  plant  your 
entire  self  in  a  human  heart.  It  costs  a  good  deal  to  do 
that.  And  you  get  a  crop,  in  time.  Or  the  world  does." 

"I'm  keeping  you  standing,"  he  said.  She  faced 
him,  as  he  thrust  the  chair  towards  her.  The  sadness 
in  her  face  was  a  beauty  the  more.  It  came  from  the 
high  things  of  life.  She  might  have  spoken  to  him 
then,  into  a  mind  moved  to  hear  her;  but  she  would 
not.  She  knew  that  his  intellect  would  suspect  an 
emotional  appeal,  not  at  once,  perhaps,  but  afterwards, 
when  she  had  gone.  She  would  not  let  him  think  that 
she  used  the  old  weapons  of  woman. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  giving  the  personality  to  another," 
he  said,  wondering,  a  little  wearily,  if  it  were  all  to 
begin  again.  "  It's  one  of  the  mistakes  of  life  for  which 
women  are  responsible.  Why  should  one  give  the 
personality  to  another?  There  is  all  this  talk  of  the 
selfishness  of  man.  The  selfishness  and  jealousy  of 
women  are  what  keep  the  world  where  it  is.  Personality 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          171 

is  rare.  It  is  a  genius  for  life,  as  rare  as  the  other  forms 
of  genius.  Personality  belongs  to  the  world.  If  you 
plant  your  personality  anywhere,  you  ought  to  plant  it 
in  the  world.  Certainly  not  in  any  single  individual. 
Custom  decrees  that  where  personality  exists  it  may 
pass  into  the  power  of  an  individual,  into  the  merciless, 
unthinking  power  of  a  woman.  I  don't  suppose  that 
there  has  been  a  single  generous  impulse  towards  the 
bettering  of  the  world,  which  the  selfishness  of  woman 
has  not  tried  to  strangle." 

"  And  the  imposing  of  the  mother's  personality  on 
the  child?" 

"  Most  mothers  have  no  more  personality  than  would 
suffice  a  bun.  I  would  make  it  a  criminal  offence  for 
most  mothers  to  attempt  any  such  thing.  Certain 
things  have  been  proved  to  be  of  use  in  the  world. 
Hardness.  Truth.  Keenness  and  quickness  of  mind. 
Indifference  to  pleasure.  Honesty  and  energy  in  work. 
Hatred  of  dirt  in  all  its  forms.  Loathing  of  idleness  in 
all  its  forms.  Belief  in  the  power  of  man  to  perfect  life. 
Those  things  can  be  taught  and  should  be  taught.  I 
believe  that  they  can  be  best  taught  by  men.  You 
can't  get  them  from  the  average  mother.  They  aren't 
in  her.  The  world  has  gone  steadily  downhill  in  all 
the  manly  qualities  since  the  '  mother's  personality ' 
became  what  is  called  '  a  factor  in  education.'  "  He 
shook  his  head  and  smiled  at  her.  "  No.  It's  no  good, 
Mrs.  Drummond,"  he  said.  "  You  won't  persuade  me. 
The  average  mother  is  as  unfit  to  control  life  as  the 
average  man  is  to  create  it,  or  to  live  it.  No.  Women 
must  be  one  of  two  things,  just  like  men.  They  must 
be  comrades  or  servants.  At  present,  they're  saying 
they  won't  be  servants.  I'm  very  glad.  But  they 
can't  be  equals  until  they  learn,  what  men  have  always 
known,  that  some  of  the  claims  they  make  upon  per- 
sonality degrade  life,  and  always  have  degraded  it." 


172         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  Men  make  certain  claims,  too/'  she  answered, 
"  which  degrade  life  unspeakably." 

"  Momentary  claims/' 

"  That  is  the  degradation." 

There  was  a  noise  at  the  door.  Letters  were  being 
forced  through  the  slit  with  the  fumbling,  scraping 
noise,  which  always  set  Mrs.  Drummond's  teeth  on  edge. 

"  The  last  post/'  he  said.  She  moved  to  the  door, 
as  the  letters  fell  with  a  thump  on  the  door-mat.  The 
clatter  of  the  postman's  feet  died  away  upon  the  stairs. 
They  heard  the  harder  ring  of  his  feet  upon  the  Court. 

"  Are  we  to  choose  between  two  degradations?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Between  sense  and  sentiment/' 

"  Ought  you  to  be  standing?  "  he  asked.  They  were 
in  the  dim  hall.  She  was  there,  close  to  him,  a  fragrance 
and  a  greyness.  In  the  vagueness  of  the  face,  made 
vague  by  hat  and  veil,  he  saw  her  eyes.  It  came  to 
him,  that  it  was  rather  wonderful  to  be  there  on  those 
terms  with  such  a  woman. 

"  I  ought  to  be  on  my  way,"  she  answered. 

"  I'll  see  you  to  the  station,"  he  said. 

"  That  will  be  very  kind." 

"  Thank  you  for  not  pretending." 

"  One  hears  such  tales  of  monasteries,"  she  retorted. 

"  All  invented  by  the  monks  to  attract  novices,"  he 
said  wearily.  "  You  should  see  the  monks  by  day- 
light." He  groped  for  his  hat  and  coat,  but  turned  to 
her  before  he  had  taken  them. 

"  I  want  you  to  talk  to  me  at  Coin  St.  Michael,"  he 
said. 

"  i  win." 

He  took  her  hand  in  both  his.  "  Good-bye,  dear 
woman,"  he  said.  "  Bless  you  for  coming  to  see  me." 
She  was  touched,  and  a  little  shaken.  She  went  out 
quickly,  and  down  the  stairs.  He  caught  her  at  the 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          173 

doorway.  She  was  still  not  quite  herself.  Something 
in  him  had  reminded  her  suddenly,  and  poignantly,  in 
her  very  soul,  of  the  day  which  had  been  marvellous  to 
her  years  before.  His  voice  was  like  the  dead  speaking. 
Old  words  were  spoken  again.  Out  of  her  brain  came 
the  past.  Roses  of  an  old  summer  were  many  on  a  wall. 
The  sun  was  hot.  The  drenched  grass  sparkled.  The 
bees  murmured  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  in  the 
drowsy  air,  warm  with  scent.  The  hum  of  many 
invisible  wings  droned,  as  though  the  air,  warm,  sweet, 
heavy  with  life,  were  singing  the  song  of  her  content. 
She  was  a  girl  again,  with  a  lift  in  the  blood  which  made 
her  soul  sing.  Many  were  in  the  garden  with  her. 
Women  like  moving  flowers,  men  like  the  knights  of 
youth.  They  laughed  in  the  sun,  they  moved  like 
laughter,  there  was  laughter  in  life  that  day  of  days. 
The  blackbirds  laughed,  startling  from  the  gooseberry 
bushes.  In  the  glow  of  light,  mellow  on  a  path,  one 
sensed  the  unrest  of  Pan  from  the  perfectness  of  the 
beauty. 

Some  one  had  laughed,  coming  down  the  path.  There 
before  her,  in  a  white  dress,  with  little  touches  of  green, 
was  the  laughing  beautiful  mother  of  this  young  man, 
and  the  little  boy  himself,  hardly  four  years  old  then. 
That  had  been  twenty-six  years  ago.  They  had  had  to 
travel  far  before  they  met  again.  And  now  they  had  met. 

Sharply  the  old  pain  wrung  her.  When  that  now 
long  silent  laughter  had  sounded  she  was  standing  at 
the  golden  door  with  her  beautiful  strong  love.  Life 
had  just  come  to  her.  Love  had  just  come  to  her. 
There  in  the  garden  by  the  pond,  where  the  dragon- 
flies  darted,  gleams  of  blue  flash  poised  quivering, 
under  a  rain  of  Kalmia  blossom,  she  had  given  her 
heart  and  mind  and  mouth,  in  a  throb  of  the  blood,  in 
a  glow,  in  a  cry,  in  an  ecstasy.  It  had  all  passed  and 
become  new.  Earth  and  sky  had  turned  gold,  and 


174          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

faded  and  fallen.  Then  there  had  been  nothing  but 
the  universal  song,  the  droning  in  the  air,  Pan  at  his 
pipes  in  the  beck.  It  had  been  music,  music,  music. 
Life  and  the  blood  surging  into  music.  Life  rising  to 
a  note  of  music  to  sing  in  the  heart  of  the  beloved. 

It  was  marvellous  that  this  young  man  should  be  a 
part  of  that  memory,  that  he  should  have  seen  her  then, 
five  minutes  after  the  ecstasy,  after  the  sacrament, 
while  her  cheeks  still  burned  from  the  kiss.  He  was 
the  first  person  to  whom  she  had  spoken  after  that 
supreme  thing.  She  had  bent  to  speak  to  him,  lest 
her  friend,  his  mother,  should  see  the  rapture  in  her. 
There  had  been  need  for  secrecy.  She  had  bent  to 
speak,  and  the  beautiful  strong  love  had  bent  to  speak. 
She  saw  him  stooping  in  the  sun,  and  the  little  boy's 
blue  eyes,  and  the  radiant  young  mother  who  laughed. 
Some  day  she  must  tell  him  all  this.  She  must  ask 
him.  She  must  perfect  that  memory.  People  still 
alive  had  been  there.  They  might  tell  her  more.  Add 
a  warmer  gold  to  the  light,  strew  the  ground  with 
another  petal,  send  one  more  gracious  presence  laugh- 
ing across  the  grass.  That  had  been  her  perfect  day. 
In  the  days  of  agony  which  followed,  that  day  had 
been  something  white,  something  shining,  to  keep 
precious,  to  keep  against  the  soul.  She  would  talk 
to  him  at  Coin  St.  Michael.  She  was  in  such  a  tumult 
of  the  past,  the  dead  knocked  so  loudly,  pressed  her  so 
close,  walking  there,  in  the  cold  lane,  that  she  could  not 
speak.  He  was  unconscious  of  her  thoughts.  He  had 
never  been  further  from  her  mood,  though  he  had  never 
seemed  so  near  to  her.  Walking  beside  her,  he  was  all 
that  marvellous  day  to  her.  He  was  petulant  with 
the  sense  that  the  conventions  of  life  had  made  an 
anti-climax,  a  break  of  mood.  He  was  thinking  that 
the  world  is  a  conspiracy  to  prevent  intimacy  between 
two  souls,  and  that  the  conspiracy  gets  more  powerful 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          175 

daily,  as  the  souls  grow  older.  As  he  ran  from  her  the 
few  steps  to  drop  his  letter  in  the  box  the  jostle  of  the 
Strand  annoyed  him.  Glancing  at  Mrs.  Drummond 
as  they  turned  down  Norfolk  Street,  he  saw  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  his  face  with  the  strange  seriousness  which 
had  puzzled  him  once  before  that  evening.  She  smiled, 
seeing  the  wonder  in  his  face. 

"  Let's  look  back  a  moment/'  she  said,  quickly, 
"  at  that  great  hill  of  flats  in  Clements  Inn.  I  used  to 
come  here  often  three  or  four  years  ago,  to  see  Mrs. 
Allison.  I  used  always  to  look  back  from  here.  She 
lived  right  at  the  top.  You  see  that  one  yellow  eye 
at  the  top  ?  That  was  where  she  lived.  I  used  to  feel 
that  I  was  in  an  eyrie  there.  It  made  me  remember 
the  lives  when  I  was  a  bird.  A  rook  in  the  elms,  high 
up,  swaying  in  the  wind.  It  must  be  life  to  be  a  rook 
in  a  nest  on  a  south-westerly  day,  when  the  cumulus 
bowls  along  above." 

"  I  like  any  big  thing  which  comes  from  thought/' 
he  said,  looking  at  the  flats.  He  paused  searching  for 
a  simile.  "  It's  a  great  big  skull  of  something,  watch- 
ing the  night  with  its  eyes.  I  like  a  top  flat.  So  you 
knew  Mrs.  Allison?  I  went  to  see  her  play,  the  night 
before  I  sailed  for  India  twelve  years  ago.  London's 
an  uncanny  place  at  night." 

"  Its  uncanniness  is  a  fever  to  weak  nerves.  Don't 
you  feel  that  all  this  great  external  thing,  the  noise, 
and  the  lights,  and  the  crowd,  and  great  uncanny  crags 
of  building,  with  gleaming  eyes  like  that,  is  something 
to  be  absorbed  and  dominated  before  the  mind  can  be 
free  to  brood  on  life?  Life  is  her  proper  subject." 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  All  this  is  the  lust  of  the  eye  and 
the  pride  of  life.  And  it's  too  big.  There's  nothing 
bigger  near  by.  One  can't  think  in  London.  There's 
no  corrective.  No  mountains,  no  noble  natural  thing. 
The  river's  bridged  out  of  grandeur.  There's  nothing 


i  ;6         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

but  what  you  call  a  crag  of  building  to  remind  you  that 
you're  part  of  the  scheme,  and  a  small  part,  not  the 
scheme  itself.  And  that  only  adds  to  man's  rotten 
pride.  He  can  build  a  thing  like  that  out  of  a  world 
which  provides  only  clay  and  stone,  in  the  worst  possible 
condition  for  the  purpose.  And  man  builds  a  house 
like  that  .  .  .  and  there  .  .  .  You  see?  That 
drunken  woman  offering  to  sell  herself  .  .  .  and  that 
broken-down,  limping  wild  beast  in  the  rags.  Look  at 
his  face.  Good  God,  what  a  face!  Man  hasn't  built 
that  up  out  of  the  mud.  Good  God,  man  cares  less  for 
life  than  for  the  stones  he  hides  in.  Let's  come  away. 
Let's  come  away.  I  can't  face  London  faces.  Faces 
which  know  nothing  and  care  nothing  and  are  nothing. 
I  wish  some  god  with  a  spoon  would  give  the  cauldron 
a  stir  and  pash  the  dregs  into  the  sea."  His  vehemence 
made  her  turn  to  walk  on  as  he  asked.  She  watched 
him  curiously,  liking  him  the  better  for  the  fervour  of 
his  devotion  to  life.  He  moved  away  hurriedly;  his 
lips  muttered;  his  head  hung;  she  could  see  the  knitting 
of  his  brows.  His  face  wore  the  look  of  tortured 
nervous  sensitiveness  which  so  often  made  her  fear  for 
him.  That  look  warns  of  coming  breakdown  or  out- 
break. What  she  feared  for  him  was  surrender  to  a 
momentary  goading  to  recklessness.  This  fear  put  her 
again  in  the  maternal  relation  to  him.  The  past  pressed 
less  closely  round  her.  She  realised  the  present.  .  She 
was  walking  with  a  young  man  in  a  London  street.  The 
young  man  was  in  a  dangerous  frame  of  mind. 

"  Fort,  Schmeissfliegen,  fort,"  she  quoted. 

"  What  were  you  saying?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  literary  quotation,"  she  answered.  "  A  German 
evocation  to  drive  fools  out  of  a  circle." 

"  Schmeissfliegen,"  he  repeated.  "  If  they  were  fools 
their  own  folly  would  destroy  them.  But  they  aren't. 
They're  that.  If  one  could  destroy  the  fly,  Mrs.  Drum- 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          177 

mond.  Dead  flies  make  the  ointment  of  the  apothecary 
to  ...  But  live  flies.  With  every  tiny  foot  clogged 
with  pestilence.  Little  tiny  death  on  wings.  Plague's 
swan  shot.  Mrs.  Drummond,  I'm  afraid  of  flies.  I 
shudder  when  I  think  what  a  fly  is. "  It  struck  her  as 
the  remark  of  one  nervously  strained.  She,  too,  had 
known  moods  in  which  the  grasshopper  was  a  burden. 
She  thought  it  strange  that  her  mind,  a  few  minutes 
before,  had  been  full  of  the  drone  and  drowse  of  flies, 
little  glittering  flies,  gold-dust  on  the  wings  of  summer. 
Now  they  were  death's  seed  sowing. 

"  Mr.  Heseltine,"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  know  what 
you  paid  for  doing  that  work  in  Africa.  What  you  say 
about  shuddering  makes  me  afraid  that  you  paid  a 
great  deal  in  nervous  strain.  Are  you  suffering  at  all 
from  Africa?  " 

"  Oh,  no/'  he  answered.  "  One  pays  part  of  oneself 
everywhere,  for  anything.  The  tropics  plant  an 
ambush  in  a  man,  of  course.  I'll  know  about  that  later. 
But  I'm  all  right  at  present.  London's  nervous  work. 
Getting  anything  done  is  nervous  work.  But  getting 
anything  done  in  London.  Well.  Martyrdom  is  the 
only  thing  likely  to  make  Paradise  endurable."  He 
smiled  at  his  cynicism,  while  he  watched  for  a  break  in 
the  traffic.  They  crossed  to  the  station  stairs. 

"  Are  you  going  to  come  to  dine  with  me  on  Tues- 
day? "  she  asked. 

"Thanks,"  he  said.  "Thanks.  But  .  .  .  Tues- 
day?" he  asked.  "Tuesday?  Now  am  I  free  on 
Tuesday?  Look  here.  I'll  write.  We  must  meet  and 
talk."  His  face  had  the  look  of  one  who  suddenly 
remembers  something.  She  would  not  keep  him 
longer.  "  Come  if  you  can  then,"  she  said.  "  Half -past 
seven."  She  gave  her  hand. 

"  Thank  you  so  much  for  coming  with  me,"  she  said. 
"  Good-bye.  You'll  write  about  Tuesday?  "  Looking 


178         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

at  him  with  the  earnest  look  which  seemed  to  concen- 
trate her  nature  in  her  eyes,  she  wondered  if  the  crisis 
were  already  on  him,  if  the  strain  were  already  severe 
enough  to  make  him  seek  for  solace.  Something  in  his 
face,  in  his  manner.  .  .  .  Sitting  in  the  train,  her  mind 
travelled  along  the  lit  streets  of  his  mind,  looking  into 
the  faces  of  the  women.  She  knew  so  many  of  the 
women.  There  were  many  noble,  gentle  women  in  the 
Hamlin  set.  Some  among  them  would  make  that 
nature  of  his  so  fine.  Sighing,  a  little  uneasily,  she  told 
herself  that  he  would  not  seem  good  enough  to  one  of 
those  women.  And  in  his  present  mood,  he  would 
think  their  fineness  merely  the  old  maid's  scruples 
which  make  women's  minds  like  linen  presses.  She 
remembered  something  which  Mr.  Naldrett  had  said  to 
her,  that  thoughts,  or  at  any  rate  moods  of  thought,  are 
persons  in  the  eternal  kingdom,  who  have  their  living 
correspondents  in  the  world  of  men,  and  that  a  man's 
thought  or  mood  of  thought,  comes  to  him  always  with 
its  physical  companion.  She  wondered  whether  his 
mood  of  unscrupulous  intellectual  attack,  which  de- 
stroyed, morally,  so  much,  in  the  effort  to  create  materi- 
ally, would  bring  to  his  life  the  temptress  whose  colour 
would  complete  the  ruin.  The  train  passed  from 
station  to  station.  It  was  like  life.  People  got  in  and 
out.  There  was  a  jostle.  People  got  in  and  out  con- 
tinually. Nobody  looked  to  see  if  the  engine-driver 
were  God  or  a  lunatic.  Nobody  asked  if  his  neighbour 
were  in  need  of  help.  The  great,  clanging,  roaring 
ingenuity  whirled  in  bright  light  under  the  cellars  of  a 
city. 

In  the  quiet  of  her  flat,  she  drew  up  her  chair  to  the 
fire.  She  sat  for  a  long  time  thinking  of  him,  travelling 
in  those  streets  of  his  mind  which  her  imagination  had 
the  power  to  light.  Thinking  of  him  as  a  dear  boy  who 
had  somehow  gone  all  astray,  she  peered  into  courts  and 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          179 

alleys,  little  black,  crooked  ways,  secret  as  the  night, 
beautiful  polite  squares,  classic  avenues.  Wandering 
in  his  mind  thus  she  realised  what  it  was  which  his  city 
wanted.  It  was  dusty.  The  sun  had  parched  it.  It 
was  waterless,  always  had  been  waterless.  There  was 
a  want  of  the  waters  of  emotion.  No  fountain  played 
there.  No  green  thing  grew  there.  Only  the  ghosts 
of  trees,  sentinel  above  unsown  corn.  Out  of  that  city 
an  army  of  the  motherless  was  marching  to  the  war. 
She  sat  on,  over  the  fire,  leaning  an  elbow  on  her  knee, 
wondering  what  she  could  do  for  him. 

Meanwhile,  Lionel,  in  his  loneliness,  built  up  from 
memory  the  beauty  who  had  laughed  there  some  hours 
before.  The  scent  of  violets  lingered  about  the  chair 
where  her  coat  had  lain.  The  twisted  paper  in  his  hand 
smelt  slightly  of  lavender.  The  mingling  of  the  per- 
fumes stirred  him.  He  kissed  the  note.  Then  for  a 
long  time  he  walked  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  staring 
at  her  photograph.  He  tried  to  think,  but  could  not. 
Rhoda  in  the  colour  of  her  youth  laughed  in  his  brain 
at  each  trial.  He  went  to  bed  at  last,  wondering  how 
the  time  would  pass  till  Sunday.  Sitting  up  in  bed, 
staring  at  the  window,  he  thought  bitterly  as  many 
lovers  have  thought,  that  Sunday  would  soon  come,  far 
away  as  it  seemed.  What  was  worse,  it  would  very 
soon  be  gone;  very  soon.  And  the  knowledge  that  it 
would  soon  be  gone,  joy  and  all,  left  him  wondering  if  it 
were  not  better  to  hug  the  present.  Friday  night  and 
hope  were  surely  better  than  Sunday  night  and  memory. 
Why  long  for  the  already  doomed  ?  The  world  has  gone 
on  for  all  these  years  longing  for  to-morrow.  To- 
morrow has  never  failed  the  world.  To-morrow  comes 
but  too  surely.  To-morrow  we  shall  know.  To- 
morrow we  shall  see.  Ah,  to-morrow  the  dust  will  be 
over  us.  We  shall  be  a  cry  in  the  wind,  a  little  shaking 
of  the  leaves. 


CHAPTER  X 

THERE  are  many  graves  in  Pudsey  churchyard.  All 
the  thirty  generations  of  Pudsey  lie  there.  The  ground 
there  is  the  dust  of  man.  Some  of  the  graves  have  head- 
stones dated  as  far  back  as  1720.  The  well-cut  stones  of 
those  days  attest  the  virtue  of  their  cutters.  Looking 
at  the  sharp,  Roman  capitals  one  sighs  more  for  the 
hand  which  could  obey  the  brain  than  for  the  Kirks, 
Heywoods,  and  Dents,  "  yeomen  of  this  parish  "  whose 
piety  the  lost  art  commemorates.  Some  of  the  graves 
are  mounds  of  turf.  Others  have  wooden  head-boards. 
Some  are  barred  with  iron,  or  heaped  with  flags,  to  keep 
the  corpse  within.  On  several,  the  local  fancy  has 
raised  erections  of  stone,  like  great  sea-chests,  with 
swags  instead  of  shackles.  As  on  sea-chests,  the  name 
of  the  occupant  of  the  tomb  is  placed  upon  the  side. 
The  lids  are  graven  with  the  names  of  those  who  were 
buried  beneath  them  after  the  first  interment.  Only 
one  grave  need  detain  us.  It  stands  to  the  south  of 
the  church,  at  the  brink  of  the  slope  which  leads  down 
to  Heywood's  farm.  It  is  the  tomb  of  a  farmer  who 
once  farmed  the  Hazel  farm,  the  home  of  which,  an 
Elizabethan  building,  stands  south-west  from  the 
church.  As  for  the  farm,  the  man  made  most  of  it 
himself,  ploughed  it  up  from  the  waste,  drained  it, 
planted  the  boggy  bit  with  sallow,  got  good  from  it, 
made  it  obey  him.  That  little  bit  of  the  world  has  been 
the  better  for  his  virtue  ever  since.  The  man  himself 
is  forgotten  locally.  He  was  a  great  singer  in  the  church 
on  Sunday.  He  liked  his  ale  of  a  morning;  drank  a 
good  quart  of  it  daily,  at  breakfast;  drank  a  good  deal 
more  of  it  during  the  day,  especially  at  harvest  time. 
He  used  to  invite  young  men  to  thump  him  on  the  chest, 

180 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          181 

so  that  he  might  show  them  his  toughness.  He  was 
fond  of  wallflowers.  The  garden  of  his  farm  to  this 
day  grows  a  strange  striped  wallflower.  It  is  descended 
from  one  of  those  kinds  which  grew  all  about  the  place 
in  his  time.  You  do  not  see  it  anywhere  else.  The 
wife  of  the  present  tenant  of  the  Hazel  calls  it  rhubarb 
tart.  It  has  a  strange  blossom,  reddish-whitish,  like  a 
mixture  of  blood  and  milk.  It  has  spread  since  his  day. 
It  has  got  into  the  walls,  with  the  valerian ;  picturesque, 
but  untidy.  He  could  never  abide  weeds  in  the  walls. 
"  Like  rust  on  iron,"  he  used  to  say.  "  It  picks  the 
walls  to  pieces."  He  had  a  crab- tree  kind  of  a  face, 
"stood  about  five  feet  four:  but  very  broad:  rode  twelve 
stone,  and  could  lift  a  pocket  of  hops.  Washed  under 
the  pump  in  the  yard  in  all  weathers.  Was  much 
attached  to  his  dog  Howker.  Had  an  old  nag  named 
Bleacher.  Rode  him  for  nineteen  years,  on  all  market 
and  fair  days.  Didn't  get  on  with  his  son  towards  the 
end  of  his  life,  son  John  being  wayward,  a  weak  slip 
tokened  to  his  mother.  Stood  up  to  Squire  and  Parson 
about  Pudsey  Common.  "  Pudsey  Common  has  been 
the  making  of  'em  (the  villagers).  And  it  be'nt  Chris- 
tian to  take  the  'eritage  of  the  poor,  law  or  no  law,  and 
so  you  ought  to  know."  He  saved  the  Common  from 
enclosure.  The  present  villagers,  who  feed  their  geese 
on  the  Common,  many  a  fat  gaggle  ("  eightpence  a 
pound  for  a  Pudsey  goose  "  is  a  well-known  proverb 
of  those  parts)  have,  as  I  have  said,  forgotten  him, 
forgotten  his  style.  The  part  of  the  Common  nearest 
to  the  church  was  dangerous  bog  in  Dent's  day.  John 
Dent's  style  came  out  at  that  end  of  the  Common.  He 
planned  the  cuts  which  drained  it.  He  got  the 
Commoners  to  put  in  with  him  in  the  task  of  cutting. 
It  was  called  Pudsey  Swallow  before  John  Dent  came 
along.  They  found  men  in  it,  cows,  horses,  when  they 
came  to  drain  it.  Bits  of  the  men's  clothes  are  to  be 


182          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

seen  at  The  Hall,  the  residence  of  Sir  Borman  Fuster, 
among  the  trees  there.  Sir  Borman  is  pleased  to  show 
them  on  week-days  on  production  of  your  card.  Very 
coarse  cloth,  seemingly  like  sacking.  It  dates  from  the 
eighteenth  century,  according  to  the  experts.  One  of 
the  men  (there  were  three  in  all,  in  different  parts  of  the 
Swallow)  had  a  wound  on  the  head.  There  is  a  passage 
about  it  in  the  Western  Counties  Guide,  from  the  pen  of 
the  Rev.  W.  Bodger,  incumbent  of  Cington  Magna.  The 
reverend  gentleman  takes  a  romantic  view  of  the  circum- 
stance. "  What  dark  deed  may  we  not  surmise  ?  "  He 
preached  about  it  once  (from  Ecclesiastes  ix.  12),  in  aid 
of  the  Pudsey  War  Memorial,  a  great  day  to  the  reverend 
gentleman,  all  due  to  Dent.  The  aforesaid  guide-book 
has  an  interesting  note  about  Cington.  "  Cington  is 
said  to  be  as  much  as  to  say  Cygne-ton,  the  '  ton '  or 
town  of  Swans,  there  being  a  swannery  in  the  lake  here, 
vide  The  Court  Rolls  for  the  Manor  of  Cington  cum 
Arbrefield  (edited  in  1881,  by  Miss  Anna  Vernon),  where 
'  cygnes  '  are  mentioned  as  a  part  of  the  dues  of  Robert 
Hart  and  Will  Eype,  whose  *  ffarmes '  were  adjacent  to 
the  said  lake."  There  are  no  swans  now.  Mad  Squire 
Fuster,  the  present  baronet's  great  grandfather,  killed 
the  last  of  them  at  a  dinner  party,  the  famous  Drunken 
Dinner  of  which  you  will  all  have  heard.  It  remains  a 
monument  of  man's  capacity  in  the  port  wine  way. 
They  still  talk  of  it,  at  times,  in  the  tap.  f  Local  phantasy 
has  corrupted  the  text  from  "  bottles  "  to  "  barrels," 
a  natural  error,  but  confusing,  at  first,  to  the  believer 
in  human  progress.  There  were  thirteen  present  at  the 
dinner.  They  called  themselves  the  Blazes  Club.  Sad 
dogs  all  of  them :  but  beat  not  the  bones  of  the  buried. 
They  have  put  twinges  in  the  bones  of  some  three 
hundred  descendants,  twinging  enough  for  one  world 
without  thwacking  the  dead.  Their  favourite  ditty — 
"We'll  be  damnable  mouldy  a  hundred  years  hence  " — 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          183 

made  a  century  too  long  a  time  for  them  by  some  ninety 
years.  All  this,  of  course,  is  a  wandering  from  the 
swans.  The  mad  squire  killed  them  in  the  hope  that 
they  might  sing.  He  had  heard  of  swans  singing  before 
they  died.  He  and  his  club  hoped  for  some  "  awful, 
jubilant  note/1  strong  enough  to  get  through  the  wine 
fumes  to  the  brain.  "  Cruel/'  John  Dent  called  it. 
There  were  traces  of  the  Radical  in  honest  John.  But 
enough  of  the  swans. 

John  Dent  lived  at  his  farm  in  his  manful  crab-tree 
way.  Going  out  night  after  night  to  his  front  door 
"  to  look  at  the  night "  he  had  the  west  before  him, 
still  with  the  glow  upon  it,  and  a  planet  in  the  glow. 
Rising  with  the  sun  to  his  work  he  had  the  dawn  with 
the  trees  against  it,  morning  after  morning.  His  wall- 
flowers were  very  sweet  there  in  the  spring.  Summer 
brought  the  increase,  autumn  the  enjoyment.  Winter 
brought  the  winter  nights,  when  work  stopped  early, 
when  the  beasts  steamed  in  the  byres,  and  the  grass 
crisped  under  foot.  He  had  good  health.  He  got  joy 
of  the  earth  in  a  dumb  way,  was  glad  of  it;  gave  God 
thanks  for  it,  fervent  in  prayer  of  a  Sunday.  He  had  a 
fear  late  in  life,  that  our  King  hadn't  done  the  right 
thing  by  Boney.  It  troubled  him.  Speaking  out  in 
prayer  one  night,  as  was  the  custom,  all  the  farm  folk 
present,  he  hoped  God  would  forgive  and  turn  the  hearts 
of  those  who  had  chosen  war  when  peace  offered.  This 
was  thought  very  strong  speaking  about  people  like  the 
King's  ministers.  We  must  remember  that  it  was  late 
in  life,  when  son  John  had  become  a  thorn.  He  had 
been  worried  into  a  pestilent  way  of  thinking.  A  word 
of  son  John.  Son  John  joined  the  Southern  Counties 
Fencibles  in  the  year  of  the  scare.  He  was  always  a 
weak  slip.  He  tokened  his  mother,  one  of  the  Rackets 
of  Cington,  warm  people,  but  weak  in  doctrine  as  was 
always  thought.  He  was  eighteen  when  he  joined  the 


1 84          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Fencibles.  He  had  an  ensigncy.  His  regiment  was 
quartered  at  Arundel.  His  men  cut  rather  a  figure 
there,  in  that  small  place.  It  was  the  ruin  of  him. 
What  with  the  drink  and  his  red  coat,  and  a  sort  of  red 

1  and  white  good  looks  he  had  (Molly  Racket  went  the 
same  way  with  young  Squire  Springal)  he  took  up  with 
a  girl  at  the  Duke  of  Granby.  She  got  into  trouble  by 
him.  There  was  scandal  about  it.  The  girl  came  to 
be  hanged  for  murdering  her  child.  Delivered  in  a  barn, 
poor  girl,  quite  alone,  at  midnight.  God  knows  what 
she  endured,  poor  child.  She  was  not  nineteen  at  the 
time.  Very  proud,  she'd  always  been,  they  said,  till 
she  met  son  John.  She  left  her  child  on  the  ground, 
and  walked  a  mile  and  a  half  in  the  dark.  Collapsed  on 
some  stones  by  the  road  there;  you  pass  the  place 
coming  from  Cross  Bush.  There  were  no  marks  on  the 
child.  The  doctor  tried  to  bring  it  in  she  was  non 

•  compos.  But  the  Judge  said  her  walking  straight  along 
the  road  to  Arundel  was  a  sign  she  walked  with  "  inten- 
tion." An  unmarried  man  the  Judge.  His  affair  with 
Lady  Swift  was  notorious.  There  was  a  ballad  on  Lady 
Swift.  "  It  is  hard  to  swallow  that  your  son  is  Swift. " 
The  paronomasia  was  much  admired  in  eighteen 
hundred  and  war  time.  We  were  a  manly  race  in  those 
days.  We  could  speak  out.  So  they  hanged  the  girl 
outside  the  gaol.  An  ostler  at  the  Duke  of  Granby 
offered  to  make  her  an  honest  woman  before  the  birth 
of  her  child.  But  she  was  always  a  proud  one.  She 
wouldn't  marry  John  for  the  same  reason.  It  seems 
John's  captain  put  pressure  on  him  to  marry  her.  But 
she  would  not.  Girls  are  like  that.  If  the  men  care 
enough,  they  do  not  wait  till  it's  a  duty.  Men  cannot 
grasp  the  point  of  view.  They  don't  understand  how 
pride  and  love  go  together  in  a  girl.  John  got  very 
drunk  the  day  of  the  hanging.  He'd  left  the  Fencibles. 
Old  John  Dent  passed  the  night  in  the  gaol,  bringing  the 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          185 

girl  to  grace.  His  mother,  Martha  Dent,  young  John's 
granny,  a  pious  woman,  then  eighty-five,  was  with  him 
in  the  cell. 

That  was  really  the  break-up  of  old  John  Dent.  He 
came  home  to  the  farm  a  changed  man.  He  never 
spoke  to  young  John  after.  Only  gloomed  at  him, 
hawking  in  his  throat.  But  the  night  after  he  came 
home  he  spoke  in  prayer,  all  the  farm  folk  present,  from 
Jeremiah  i.  18,  and  ii.  7,  21,  22,  and  part  of  23  (to  "  know 
what  thou  hast  done  ") .  It  must  have  been  very  terrible. 
It  was  all  the  worse  from  old  John  being  so  short.  There 
was  a  lot  of  man  concentrated  into  old  John.  That  was 
the  only  flaming  out  men  ever  saw  in  old  John,  but  for 
the  stand  against  Squire  about  the  Enclosure. 

Some  say  that  a  flaming  out  empties  the  heart.  They 
say  it  is  like  a  bonfire,  a  burning  up  of  weeds.  It  wasn't 
that  to  old  John.  He  burned  inward,  in  spite  of  his 
work.  Late  on  in  his  life  he  took  to  talking  to  himself. 
He  muttered  odd  sentences.  Walked  about  repeating 
things.  There  is  a  Latin  name  for  it  now.  The  neigh- 
bours called  it  a  Swindging  Melancholy.  They  pre- 
scribed things.  Ann  Dent  saw  the  wise  woman  of 
Lidripe  about  him.  A  famous  creature.  Yet  all  was 
no  good.  Not  that  he  failed  as  a  farmer  and  a  Chris- 
tian. He  was  up  before  his  men  every  day,  going  up, 
team  and  all,  before  dawn.  Sunday  just  the  same,  in 
his  pew,  just  below  the  pulpit,  a  mighty  power  in 
responses.  His  "  Lord  grant  it,"  at  hopeful  points  in 
the  sermon,  was  a  thing  to  mind.  But  he  had  this  thing 
preying  in  him.  He  was  never  quite  the  same.  That 
doubt  about  Boney  is  only  one  instance  of  many. 

Not  that  it  killed  him.  It  lowered  him.  He  died  of 
a  squinsy  which  he  got  coming  home  one  night  from 
Putsham  November  fair.  In  his  right  health  he  would 
have  shaken  it  off,  but  the  heart  was  out  of  him.  He 
wasn't  ill  long,  didn't  suffer  much,  was  grim  to  son  John 


1 86          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

to  the  end.  Parson  had  a  wrestle  over  old  John.  Par- 
son was  strong  in  doctrine  but  weak  in  good  works. 
Loaves  and  fishes  for  Parson.  Old  John  went  home 
manfully.  One  felt  that  when  he  died  the  man  of  him 
walked  out  to  Christ,  with  a  great  awe,  yet  ready  to 
take  what  was  coming.  There  was  a  man  in  old  John. 
A  little  dark  bull  of  a  man.  When  he  went  staggering 
out  of  the  body,  into  the  light,  he  looked  his  Redeemer 
in  the  eye,  and  told  a  straight  tale  of  himself,  be  sure  of 
that.  "  Lord,  I  been  a  great  sinner,  but  I  done  my 
work  afore  Thee." 

He  did.  The  world  bears  record.  The  Hazel  farm 
bears  record.  There  is  the  famous  north  wall  where  his 
pears  grew.  There  is  no  such  wall  elsewhere.  The 
wallflower  and  valerian  have  got  into  it  now.  Moss, 
lichen,  stone-crop,  and  that  little  snapdragon  of  a 
flower,  the  most  lovely  of  all  the  flowers  which  grow  on 
stone  (toad-flax  the  name  of  it)  have  all  taken  hold  upon 
it.  The  brick  has  mellowed  to  cherry  colour,  clean  and 
bold,  all  the  brighter  for  the  lichen.  There  is  all  John 
Dent  in  that  wall.  It  is  mere  picturesque  now,  to  those 
of  us  who  look  at  it.  We  have  ceased  to  look  at  things 
for  the  quality  of  honest  work  in  them.  Picturesque! 
Nature  creeping  in.  Old  knoppy  badly  pruned  stocks 
of  fruit-trees,  with  few  fruit.  Old  John  would  have 
glowered,  hawking  in  his  throat.  Then  there  is  the 
house  itself.  John  left  it  good  for  two  centuries.  The 
garden  wall  has  been  damaged.  Some  one  let  the  ivy 
grow  on  it.  A  great  tod  of  ivy.  Not  even  the  ivy 
perfect  now,  for  the  horses  crop  it  from  the  meadows, 
thrusting  their  heads  over.  But  elsewhere  about  the 
place  there  is  an  honesty  of  work  and  plan  which  no 
neglect  can  efface.  The  farm  is  ill-kept  now.  The 
garden  has  a  lavender  hedge.  And  everywhere  now, 
on  the  walls,  in  the  walks,  wherever  the  foot  falls,  is 
the  wallflower,  rhubarb  tart,  with  its  reddish-whitish 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          187 

blossom,  like  milk  and  blood.  Everywhere  there  is 
that  perfume  of  the  wallflower.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the 
place,  that  perfume.  It  is  in  the  house,  too,  for  the 
present  tenants  make  a  pourri  of  the  flowers.  Lavender 
and  wallflower.  The  secret  is  known  only  to  them- 
selves. It  is  very  sweet,  passing  sweet,  the  odour  of 
the  fullness  of  summer,  the  essence  of  the  sweetness  of 
earth.  It  goes  about  the  world,  into  many  houses. 
The  fragrance  scents  many  lives,  is  a  memory  to  many. 
It  clings  to  the  robes  of  many  women,  as  they  pass 
across  the  rooms  of  life,  bringing  beauty.  Many  men 
cannot  pass  a  wallflower  without  thinking  of  the  shining 
one  about  whom  that  perfume  clings.  Some  of  the 
sweetness  and  the  romance  of  many  lives  come,  in  a 
measure,  from  old  John  Dent,  who  lies  in  Pudsey 
churchyard. 

His  tomb  is  of  the  sea-chest  variety.  The  inscrip- 
tion (on  the  southward  side)  is  as  follows : — 

"  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  John  Dent,  yeoman,  of 
this  parish,  who  died  Oct.  22nd,  1808,  aged  46. 

"  Life  is  uncertain.     Death  is  so  sure. 
Sin  is  the  Death.     Christ  is  the  cure." 

His  widow,  Ann  Dent,  was  buried  at  Cington,  where  all 
her  people  lie.  An  inscription  on  the  lid  of  John's  sea- 
chest  tells  of  the  other  Dents  who  lie  beside  him : — 

"  Also  of  John  Dent,  his  Son,  who  departed  this  life 
March  i6th,  1815,  aged  30. 

"  Also  of  Bethia  Dent,  his  daughter,  who  died  July 
23rd,  1860,  aged  72  years,  being  the  last  of  her  family." 

There  is  a  dignity  in  the  last  six  words  which  raises 
Bethia  from  the  grave  to  us.  Pride  and  an  instinct  for 
style,  the  sense  that  a  tradition  died  with  her,  the  know- 
ledge that  she  bowed  to  a  god  unknown  to  the  folk 


1 88          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

about  her.  She  was  precise  in  her  dress,  of  a  graceful, 
slight  figure,  rather  prim-lipped,  but  fine,  a  living  re- 
proof to  the  farmers  round.  She  never  married;  never 
had  an  offer,  some  think.  She  set  her  heart  as  a  girl  on 
young  Squire  Rollock,  a  coming  lad,  who  went  and 
entered  the  Church.  He  held  the  Rollock  living  for 
thirty  years  there  (at  Cington  Parva).  Parson  Rollock 
had  a  great  opinion  of  Miss  Bethia.  He  held  that  she 
had  (as  it  was  then  called)  "  ideas  above  her  station." 
Perhaps  some  words  of  his  spoken  one  winter  night 
before  riding  out  into  the  dark,  were  misunderstood  by 
her.  He  had  had  tea  with  her  at  the  farm.  He  had 
come  about  a  girl  who  had  been  led  astray;  a  sad  case, 
the  man  Peters  was  to  blame  for  it.  Pity  for  the  girl 
gave  his  words  a  tenderness.  You  know  how  it  is,  after 
tea,  by  the  fire  on  a  winter  night.  It  never  could  have 
been,  of  course.  Still,  Miss  Bethia  treasured  those 
words.  Repeated  them  every  day  for  many  years  very 
likely.  He  married  a  Miss  Hope  of  Dover;  but  was 
disappointed  in  her,  so  people  said. 

Miss  Bethia  started  a  needle-work  class  in  her  old  age. 
She  was  a  famous  needle-woman.  She  was  bed-ridden 
at  seventy  (had  a  stroke  in  the  garden,  driving  out  the 
hens  from  the  flower  beds).  The  girls  of  her  needle-class 
used  to  come  by  turns  to  read  the  Bible  to  her,  especially 
the  epistles  of  James  and  John.  She  died  very  quietly, 
one  summer  evening,  with  her  face  in  the  light,  in  her 
old  room  at  the  farm.  After  her  death,  it  was  as  in  the 
Scriptures.  Her  lavender  hedge  did  another  snip,  and 
her  Orpington  hens  did  another  fatten.  The  farm 
passed  to  strangers,  weak,  decent  people,  connected 
with  those  parts  long  before,  distant  relatives.  Some 
of  her  furniture  is  there  still,  her  old  bureau  of  books, 
and  a  piece  of  her  work.  The  work  represents  the  light 
on  a  peak.  One  gets  an  impression  from  it  (perhaps  a 
fanciful  one)  of  something  deeper  in  Miss  Bethia' s  mind, 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          189 

an  impression  of  an  intelligence  thrusting  upward  into 
Heaven.  These  religious  minds  have  strange,  unsus- 
pected, mystical  notions  of  the  kind.  Yet  critics  are 
often  wrong.  They  read  in  much  which  isn't  really 
there.  Perhaps  we  do  so  here. 

The  Dents  are  all  gone  from  the  countryside.  But 
they  have  left  their  mark  upon  it.  And,  like  all  the 
other  deeds  of  man,  their  deeds  are  still  fruitful,  still 
have  their  influence.  One  of  the  deeds  of  old  John 
Dent  had  its  influence  upon  Lionel  Heseltine.  Perhaps, 
long  after  you  and  I  are  dust,  something  we  have  done 
or  said  will  move  unknown  people  far  away,  at  critical 
moments  of  their  lives,  and  be  a  memory  to  them, 
something  shining,  recalled  long  after,  at  the  end  of 
everything.  Thus  it  was  with  one  of  the  deeds  of  John 
Dent,  who  found  the  Cure  of  this  world's  troubles  on 
October  22nd,  1808,  aged  forty-six. 

When  John  Dent  was  at  his  best  (say  thirty-one  or 
two)  he  worked  the  limestone  quarry,  below  Ponton 
Copse,  a  little  to  the  north  of  the  homestead.  He  burned 
the  stone  in  the  kilns  up  the  hill.  You  can  see  traces 
of  the  kilns  even  now,  especially  after  frost.  The 
business  did  not  pay,  after  the  first  year  or  two.  They 
had  finished  the  new  wing  of  the  Hall  by  '95.  There 
was  not  much  demand  for  lime  thereabouts  when  that 
was  finished.  John  ceased  to  work  the  quarry.  He  left 
it  to  nature,  who  wrought  her  will  upon  it.  Coltsfoot 
and  burdock  took  hold  of  it:.  The  grass  soon  spread. 
The  rabbits  tunnelled  the  mounds.  Brambles  choked 
the  paths.  Nature  is  greedy  of  opportunities  to  be 
wasteful.  John  did  not  like  the  looks  of  it  in  that  un- 
tidy state.  He  thought  of  making  it  a  garden  for  Ann 
and  the  children.  He  did  some  work  upon  it  to  that 
end,  but  never  finished  it.  He  was  busy  with  the  job  of 
the  Swallow,  and  Ann  liked  the  place  wild.  She  had 
romantic  notions.  He  left  it  a  pleasant,  grassy  hollow, 


190         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

sown  with  early  bulbs,  daffodils,  squills,  and  small 
scarlet  tulips.  It  is  there  still,  at  the  south-east  end  of 
Ponton  Copse.  It  is  a  sweet  place  in  the  early  spring. 
The  wild  plants  have  choked  the  bulbs,  all  but  the 
daffodils.  The  daffodils  are  there  still.  And  Ann's 
white  violets,  toughened  by  the  years,  have  spread  all 
over  the  place.  In  April  when  the  sun  is  hot,  they 
smell  so  sweet  that  the  air  is  drowsy  with  them.  All 
the  April  flowers  grow  there.  There  are  primroses 
everywhere,  among  the  last  year's  leaves.  Below  the 
spring  at  the  southern  end  of  the  quarry,  there  are 
marsh-marigolds  and  cuckoo-flowers.  Pale  things  the 
cuckoo-flowers.  All  the  April  flowers  are  spiritual. 
There  is  something  of  Easter  in  the  April  flowers,  some- 
thing white.  Something  pale  and  spiritual  runs  in 
Nature  in  April,  a  quick  thing,  a  laughter  in  the  blood, 
a  shy  thing.  Some  think  that  April  can  only  be  seen 
at  its  most  perfect  in  that  old  quarry  of  John's.  The 
smell  of  the  violets,  the  colour  of  the  primrose,  the 
laughter  in  the  trembling  of  the  trumpets,  and  the  dust 
of  the  budding  upon  the  thorn.  They  are  all  in  the  old 
quarry.  And  among  the  rotten  stone  of  the  quarry- 
face,  in  the  parts  where  rabbits  cannot  climb  to  nibble, 
the  farmer's  wife  or  some  one  dropped  in  the  seeds  of 
the  wallflower.  It  grows  all  up  that  quarry  face,  wher- 
ever a  chink  opens.  Valerian  is  there,  too;  but  the 
time  of  the  valerian  comes  later,  when  the  joy  has  gone 
out  of  things.  Rhubarb  tart  flowers  early  and  flowers 
long.  When  the  sun  shines  one  lies  back  at  ease  on  the 
grass  there.  The  blackbirds  call.  The  thrushes  call. 
Spring  is  in  the  blood  of  all  the  birds  of  the  air.  The 
sun  comes  warm,  drawing  out  the  smell  from  the  violets. 
The  primrose  scent  comes  purely  as  one  lies  back.  The 
dead  leaves  rustle  under  head.  Lying  back  one  sees  the 
fine  weather  clouds  float  past,  against  the  branches  of 
the  copse.  There  are  catkins  in  the  copse.  They  waver 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          191 

and  waver.  Rabbits  creep  out  to  nibble.  The  bright 
ribbon  of  a  snake  suns  on  a  mole-hill,  to  flash  back, 
whip-like,  to  his  lair  at  a  step  or  shadow.  Something  is 
in  the  sun,  in  the  air,  in  all  that  beauty  of  earth  unfold- 
ing. The  rabbits  feel  it,  it  is  in  the  grass,  in  the  flowers. 
It  is  the  will  of  the  things  the  winter  killed  forcing  the 
earth  to  give  new  bodies  to  them. 

What  lies  beyond  life?  Who  knows?  Perhaps  it  is 
the  unused  will,  the  unused  knowledge,  the  unused  joy, 
of  all  the  millions  dead.  "  The  dead  are  about  us 
always."  Perhaps  the  air  is  full  of  moods  in  search  of 
flesh  to  express  them.  We  ought  to  live  in  places 
where  the  will  to  live  clothes  itself  in  lovely  shapes. 
The  good  spirits  haunt  those  places,  the  gentle  souls. 
A  place  expresses  the  quality  of  the  spirits  which  seek 
life  there.  Sensitiveness  to  that  quality  makes  land- 
scape art  endurable.  Men  must  not  ask  of  a  landscape 
artist  the  number  of  the  trees  nor  the  pattern  of  the 
colours.  They  must  ask  him  where  to  raise  the  altar 
to  the  genius  loci. 

When  April  was  at  her  loveliest,  there  came  a  day  of 
rain.  The  rain  filled  the  little  spring  at  the  southern 
end  of  the  quarry.  The  spring  bubbled  up,  stirring  the 
sand-grains  with  its  trembles.  It  rilled  past  the  rush- 
clump,  past  the  ooze  where  the  marigolds  sucked. 
With  a  cluck  and  colour  it  slid  across  a  quartz,  loitered 
in  bubbles  below,  bobbed  round,  curtsied  and  continued. 
It  rippled  away,  cleaving  through  the  grasses,  in  all  the 
perpetual  miracle  of  an  April  brook.  A  bramble  had 
fallen  across  it.  It  sent  it  ducking  up  and  down, 
bright  with  wet.  It  drove  sodden  leaves,  and  a  twig 
with  a  lime  crust  on  it,  against  the  bramble.  A  pool 
spread,  curdling  with  scum,  yeasty  near  the  bramble, 
like  working  ale.  Then  on.  Then  on.  Beyond  this  it 
had  a  glide  two  feet  long  to  a  puddle  a  yard  across. 
Here  it  lay  clear  upon  sand  brought  down  by  the  fall. 


1 92          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Then,  slowly,  it  sucked  away  over  a  lip,  and  quickened, 
and  broke  out  bubbling.  Over  a  run  of  pebbles  it 
glugged  and  tinkled.  In  the  hollow  to  the  east  of  the 
farm  a  ditch  drained  into  it.  It  spread.  It  began  to 
hurry.  At  the  corner  of  the  field  where  the  marigolds 
grow  in  a  quag,  the  hurry  fevered.  It  made  an  in- 
sistent hurry — hurry — hurry  note.  It  was  as  though  it 
heard  the  bigger  brook,  rushing  down  there,  full  from 
many  ditches  and  the  Hall  House  pool.  Down  at  the 
corner  of  the  field,  in  the  quag  trodden  into  cups  of 
muddy  water  by  the  hoofs  of  the  farm  beasts,  it  slid 
into  the  larger  brook,  making  a  noise  upon  the  pebbles. 
The  leap  and  collapse  of  the  run  of  the  water  on  the 
stone  is  a  continual  miracle  there.  The  change  and 
interchange,  the  sudden  smooth  of  the  glide,  cold, 
brown,  glassy,  bursting  into  wrinkles,  into  bubbles, 
crinkling  into  dapples,  gold  suddenly,  instantly  blue  or 
brown,  a  jobble,  a  plowter,  a  collapse,  always  a  rush,  a 
hurry,  always  deliberate,  pausing,  circling,  making  up 
its  mind,  headlong  at  last,  anon  quiet,  menacing  even, 
secret. 

Just  at  the  meeting  of  the  brooks,  the  sitting  black- 
bird flew  from  her  nest  with  a  cackle  as  a  man's  foot 
thrust  down  the  plashing  of  the  hedge.  It  was  the 
morning  after  the  rain,  a  magical  morning.  A  south- 
west wind  was  brushing  the  sky's  face  clean.  The  sky's 
face  was  a  child's  face,  laughing  through  tears.  Three 
or  four  times  the  foot  beat  upon  the  plashing  surging 
it  down  at  each  thrust.  The  blackbird,  glancing  back 
from  her  cover  in  a  bramble,  saw  the  thorn  give.  Then 
a  voice  spoke,  Lionel's  voice. 

"  Can  you  get  over  here,  Rhoda  ?    It's  a  bit  of  a  jump." 

Rhoda's  face  peered  over  the  hedge,  at  the  bank  on 

the  other  side.     To  step  across  the  hedge  to  the  bank 

was  easy,  even  to  a  woman  in  a  skirt,  but  the  bank  was 

four  feet  above  the  water,  and  to  jump  from  that  height, 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          193 

across  the  brook,  on  to  quaggy  landing,  would  be  less 
easy  with  a  man  at  hand,  less  easy,  that  is,  to  do  de- 
corously. She  wanted  the  day  to  be  perfect.  It  was 
her  day.  All  things  in  the  world,  within  and  without, 
worked  together  to  make  it  perfect  to  her.  Lionel  had 
just  arrived,  had  been  with  her  twenty  minutes.  Lunch 
would  not  be  ready  for  two  and  a  half  hours.  The  sun 
shone.  Dora  had  a  headache.  Dora  was  stopping  in- 
doors. She  was  with  Lionel,  walking  an  April  world, 
in  the  sun,  in  the  wind,  tasting  the  flame  in  things. 

"  It's  rather  muddy  landing,  isn't  it?  "  she  asked. 

Lionel  jumped  from  the  hedge,  and  looked  down  at 
the  brook's  further  bank. 

"  It's  the  only  place  to  cross  the  hedge,'*  he  said, 
"  without  going  all  that  way  round  to  the  gate.  It's 
not  such  bad  landing.  Come  over  and  see." 

He  trod  down  the  strong  plash  with  one  foot,  and 
helped  her  across  to  the  bank  beside  him.  The  bank 
was  clustered  with  primrose.  In  the  meadow  beyond 
the  daffodils  danced,  pale  and  pretty,  above  stalks 
which  the  sun  made  grey.  Her  hand  was  warm  in  his 
an  instant.  She  stood  beside  him,  glad  of  his  touch. 
The  wind  blew  a  lock  of  her  hair  across  her  brow.  It 
ruffled  there,  just  above  her  eye,  a  pennon  to  her.  They 
looked  together  at  the  prospect.  He  looked  at  her. 

"  You're  looking  well,  Rhoda." 

"  Isn't  it  all  glorious  ?     I  want  to  dance." 

"I'll  whistle  for  you,"  he  answered.  Her  eyes 
danced,  taking  in  the  leap  of  a  lamb  in  the  field  beyond. 
That  was  the  true  dance  for  April.  Lionel  spoke  again, 
voicing  the  time  of  year.  "  I  like  you  in  a  Tarn  o' 
Shanter,  Rhoda,"  he  said.  "And  what  a  pretty  tie 
you're  wearing." 

"  That's  the  morning.  That  isn't  me.  I'm  going  to 
be  very  rash.  I'm  going  to  jump  from  here." 

"  Let  me  jump  first  and  give  you  a  hand." 

N 


i94         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  No.  Aha."  She  bounded  outwards,  beating  her 
skirts  down,  clutching  them  to  her.  She  landed  grace- 
fully. There  was  a  squelching  noise  where  her  foot 
plunged  into  mud.  She  turned  with  a  little  laughing 
bow,  as  she  withdrew  her  foot  from  the  quag. 

"  It's  glorious  coming  through  the  air/1  she  said. 
"  Come  on.  See  how  far  you  can  jump." 

"  Standing  jump?  "  he  asked.  "  There's  no  take  off 
for  a  run." 

"  Standing  jump,"  she  said.  "  That's  where  I  came 
to."  She  pointed  to  her  footprint,  already  half  full  of 
reddish  water.  She  wanted  to  see  the  young  man's 
strength.  She  wanted,  also,  to  give  him  a  chance  to 
exhibit  himself. 

"  Throw  me  down  your  cap.  I'll  hold  it  for  you,"  she 
called.  "It's  sure  to  blow  off."  She  wanted  the 
picture  of  his  face  with  the  hair  ruffled  by  the  wind. 
He  flung  down  the  cap. 

"  Funk,"  she  cried,  swinging  the  cap  to  and  fro. 
' '  Funk. ' '  She  watched  him,  delighting  in  him.  He  was 
comely.  His  charming  boy's  face  was  sunny  there. 
His  hair  ruffled.  She  noted  his  grace.  She  noted  the 
intensity  of  interest  deepening  in  his  eyes  when  he 
looked  at  her.  The  blood  mantled  in  her  cheeks.  Her 
eyes  sparkled.  There  was  laughter  in  her  hair  from  the 
wind.  Looking  up  at  him,  smiling,  she  felt  the  beauty 
of  the  young  man.  She  had  felt  it  before,  in  a  vague 
way.  It  had  been  a  part  of  his  charm  for  her.  It 
surged  in  her  now,  vaguely,  and  confusingly,  troubling 
her,  making  her  ashamed,  but  glowing  up,  suddenly, 
with  a  new  significance  which  was  delightful.  She  saw 
his  slim  grace  leap  with  the  athlete's  beautiful  economy 
of  force.  "  Men  are  clever  with  their  bodies,"  she 
thought.  Though  that  was  not  her  thought,  her 
thought  was  an  emotion  of  the  spring.  He  landed 
beside  her,  with  a  grace  very  beautiful  to  see. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          195 

"  Who's  a  funk?  "  he  asked.  "  I'll  trouble  you  fcr 
my  cap,  please. "  He  took  the  cap  and  put  it  on,  still 
looking  at  her.  "  What  jolly  things  women  wear,"  he 
said,  "  when  they're  not  on  the  war-path.  Would  you 
like  your  jacket  off,  by  the  way.  Aren't  you  roasting  ?  " 

"  No.     It's  light,"  she  said. 

"  I  wish  women  always  wore  sensible  things,"  he  said. 
"  Human  life  won't  be  possible  till  they  do." 

"  We  wear  things  to  please  you,"  she  answered. 
"  And  you  hardly  ever  notice.  And  then  you 
grumble." 

"  You  wear  things  to  please  yourselves  by  attracting 
us,"  he  said.  "  Women  complain  that  men  think 
too  much  of  a  side  of  life  you  know  nothing  about." 
He  checked  himself.  "  I  say,  Rhoda."  He  stooped 
quickly  and  plucked  up  a  fistful  of  grass  from  a  tussock. 
"  Put  out  that  foot  again.  You  can't  go  about  like 
that."  He  knelt  beside  her  and  wiped  the  shoe  with 
the  grass.  "  You  very  nearly  got  a  shoeful  there,"  he 
said. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  Now  you've  got  your 
hands  all  muddy.  Wash  them  in  the  brook."  He 
rinsed  them  there. 

"  Now,  Rhoda,"  he  said,  rising  to  his  feet  again. 
"  You're  my  hostess.  Where  are  you  going  to  take 
me?" 

"  I  want  you  to  choose,"  she  said.  "  You  choose. 
You're  my  guest." 

"  And  if  I  choose  something  you  don't  want  ?  " 

"  You  can't,"  she  answered.  "  I  want  it  all  on  a 
morning  like  this." 

"You  won't  get  tired?" 

"  No." 

"  Well.  Look  here,  Rhoda.  Is  any  one  coming  this 
afternoon  ?  " 

"To  see  me,  do  you  mean?    No."    She  laughed  a 


196          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

little  bright  laugh  at  the  knowledge  that  he  wanted  her 
to  himself. 

"  I  suppose  Dora?  .  .  ."  he  began.  He  wasn't  quite 
sincere  in  his  thought  for  Dora.  He  was  merely  asking 
Rhoda  how  much  he  was  to  be  forced  to  see  of  her. 
" Oughtn't  we  to  stay  in  to  amuse  Dora?  " 

"  If  Dora's  well  enough,  she's  got  to  go  out  this  after- 
noon, to  call  on  the  Fusters." 

"  Will  you  be  going  with  her?  " 

"  I  could."    She  made  a  little  moue. 

"  You  won't?  "     She  looked  at  him  with  hauteur. 

"  Will  you  be  able  to  stay  tea?  "  she  asked,  scrupu- 
lously polite. 

"  Yes.     If  you  will  let  me." 

"  I  can't  call  on  the  Fusters  if  you  stay." 

"  Then  I'll  stay,"  he  said  firmly. 

"  There's  a  good  train  at  7.1,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  Then  we've  got  the  day  together?  "  She  gravely 
nodded.  Her  eyes  danced. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  said,  eyeing  her  face  with  grave 
approval.  "  We  mustn't  do  too  much  this  morning. 
Take  me  where  you  like.  But  I  vote  we  don't  go  far,  if 
you  don't  mind.  Where  will  you  take  me  ?  " 

"  First  of  all,"  she  said.  "  I'll  take  you  up  the  slope 
here.  There's  a  jolly  place  just  on  this  side  of  the  copse. 
It  looks  as  though  it  had  once  been  a  quarry.  I  call  it 
the  Place  of  Blossom.  I'll  pick  you  some  white  violets 
for  your  button-hole."  She  spread  her  arms  to  the  sun. 
"  I  want  to  run,"  she  cried.  "  I  want  to  sing.  I  want 
to  dance."  She  flitted  lightly  up  the  slope  into  the 
hollow  of  the  quarry.  The  flow  of  the  neat  short  skirt 
gave  grace  to  her  running.  He  followed.  He  found  her 
on  her  knees  near  the  thorn,  smelling  some  white  violets. 
"  Smell,"  she  cried,  holding  them  out  to  him.  "  Aren't 
they  heavenly  ?  "  He  took  the  violets.  As  he  took 
them  he  touched  the  frank,  firm,  graceful  fingers.  He 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          197 

realised  from  the  touch  not  so  much  the  sanctity  of 
maidenhood  as  its  genuineness,  its  courage,  and  fresh- 
ness. He  had  not  realised  the  girl  before. 

"  What  fine  things  girls  are/'  he  said.  She  nodded 
at  him  quizzically. 

"  We  are,"  she  said.  "  Only — "  she  paused  a  minute, 
looking  hard  at  him,  for  an  instant,  then  dropping  her 
eyes.  "  We  aren't  fine  in  the  porcelain  flower  way.  I 
wish  men  would  see  that  we  don't  live  on  chocolates 
and  roses,  any  more  than  we  live  on  brandy.  We  live 
on  meat  and  air,  just  like  you.  The  only  difference  is 
in  the  things  that  we're  afraid  of.  We're  afraid  of  all 
sorts  of  things  which  you  don't  mind.  And  you'd  be 
afraid  of  all  sorts  of  things  we're  proud  of.  Isn't  this 
place  heavenly  ?  I  found  it  by  accident." 

"It's  heavenly.  But  ought  you  to  be  kneeling?" 
His  hand  thrust  about  the  grass,  testing  its  dryness. 

"  I'm  aU  right.     I  don't  take  cold  easily." 

"Sure?" 

"  Sure.  Besides  it's  quite  dry.  Isn't  the  sun 
wonderful?  " 

"  Yes.  Rhoda!  Let's  have  tea  here.  We'll  bring 
out  rugs  and  mackers  and  have  tea  here." 

"  Yes.     Let's." 

"  And  now  let's  go  into  the  woods.  Shall  we  ?  Or 
shall  we  go  bird's  nesting  ?  " 

"  Into  the  woods." 

"  Enter  these  enchanted  woods  ye  who  dare.  Do 
you  dare?  " 

"  Yes,  I  dare,"  she  said.  She  looked  up  at  the  many 
branches.  She  was  taking  in  delight  from  every  sense. 
The  beauty  of  the  day  seemed  to  add  to  her  beauty  at 
each  instant.  "  I  know  how  Diana  felt,"  she  added. 
"  The  spring  makes  me  long  to  be  hunting  something. 
To  be  going  barefooted.  Running  down  a  deer,  along 
that  grass.  To  feel  one's  feet  alive.  Wouldn't  it  be 
glorious?  " 


198         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"Glorious." 

"  Shall  we  have  a  race  ?  "  She  was  on  her  feet,  look- 
ing at  him  with  mischievous  eyes  of  invitation. 

"  No/'  he  said.  "  Spendthrift.  We've  got  the  day 
for  a  race.  Let  me  pick  you  a  buttonhole."  He  picked 
a  couple  of  dozen  white  violets.  Their  warm  sweet 
scent  came  upon  them,  now  and  then,  on  waves  of  the 
air,  like  the  touch  of  a  presence.  He  added  three  blue 
violets  as  accents.  "  Will  you  wear  these?  "  he  asked, 
holding  them  out  to  her. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  lazily.  She  pressed  them 
against  her  lips  under  pretence  of  smelling  them.  "  How 
sweet  they  are,"  she  said.  "  Oh  the  flowers  and  the 
grass  and  the  spring.  How  I  love  them."  She  stood 
up,  slipped  off  her  jacket,  and  tucked  the  violets  into 
her  belt.  She  looked  at  him  for  his  look  of  approval  of 
her.  He  liked  her  in  that  girlish  short  skirt,  white 
flannel  blouse  and  tie. 

"  Let  me  carry  your  coat,"  he  said.  "  And  now  for 
the  woods." 

"  The  woods,"  she  said. 

"  The  woods,"  he  repeated.  "  Those  excitable 
wildernesses  where  Diana  swings  her  bow." 

They  paused  at  the  gate  of  the  woods.  They  looked 
up  the  ride  which  stretched  in  front  of  them  into  the 
wood's  heart.  The  shatterings  of  sunlight  fell  across 
the  ride  in  a  trembling  criss-cross  of  flots.  The  shadows 
of  the  twigs  trembled  on  the  gold  of  the  flots.  The 
catkins  quivered  on  the  hazels.  The  wood-anemones 
bowed  before  the  wind,  giving  that  old  impression, 
renewed  every  spring,  that  they  were  a  host  at  charge, 
bowing  white  helms,  hurrying.  A  gust  came  out  of  the 
air.  It  swept  into  the  wood,  touching  the  cheeks  of  the 
pair  with  the  same  caress.  It  brushed  up  a  few  dead 
leaves  with  a  rustle.  Then  it  bowed  down  all  the  army 
of  anemones.  Leaf  and  stalk  and  flower  they  bowed, 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         199 

as  though  they  were  putting  down  their  heads,  and 
charging,  charging,  up  the  wood  to  the  battle.  Their 
leaves  fluttered  like  wagging  skirts.  Here  and  there  a 
crest  tossed,  out  of  the  plane  of  the  bowed  heads.  The 
little  noise  of  their  fluttering  was  like  something  spoken 
by  the  wood. 

The  gust  died  out,  leaving  a  stillness.  The  sun  beat 
warm  on  the  cheeks  turned  to  each  other.  Far  away 
up  the  ride  a  rabbit  loitered,  sampling  the  grass.  On 
the  trunk  of  an  oak  near  the  gate  was  a  notice: — 

"TRESPASSERS  WILL  BE   PROSECUTED." 

"  Do  you  dare?  "  said  Lionel. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I  dare.  We'll  go  right  up  to  my 
Sacred  Grove.  There's  a  great  cup  cut  in  the  earth  at 
the  top  of  the  hill.  It's  all  grown  over  with  trees.  And 
I  pretend  it's  a  Sacred  Grove.  We'll  go  there." 

"  And  worship?" 

"  Or  dance." 

"  The  gate's  padlocked."  He  swung  himself  over 
with  a  power  of  muscle  which  pleased  and  surprised  her. 

"  Outstripping  my  ten  small  steps  with  one  stride," 
she  said.  "  I've  got  to  climb  a  step  at  a  time."  She 
laid  her  jacket  on  the  top  bar  and  began  the  ascent. 
He  tucked  the  jacket  under  his  arm.  It  was  fragrant 
with  that  smell  of  violets  which  always  hung  about  her 
clothes.  Holding  out  a  hand  he  took  the  frank 
virginal  hand  outstretched  to  him.  Rhoda  paused 
with  a  little  nervous  laugh  on  the  passage  to  the  top 
bar  from  the  bar  below  it. 

"  Would  you  like  both  hands?  "  he  asked. 

11  No,  thanks,"  she  answered,  jumping.  She  landed 
beside  him,  breathing  rather  hard. 

"  Will  you  have  your  coat  in  the  wood  ?  " 

"No,  thanks." 


20C 


200          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  What  shall  we  talk  about?  We  ought  not  to  talk. 
We  ought  to  sing." 

"  Save  your  breath  for  the  climb/'  she  said.  "  It's 
a  steep  pull  up.  But  there'll  be  a  view  at  the  top." 

"  That's  what  you  always  get  for  dilating  the  heart," 
he  said.  "  A  complete  sense  of  the  beauty  you've 
abandoned." 

"  That's  a  most  cynical  thing  to  say.  The  view's 
very  fine." 

"  Well.  Show  me  England,"  he  said.  "  England. 
A  lot  of  England.  All  a  valley,  with  cities,  and  smoke, 
and  the  fields  like  counties  in  a  map.  Rhoda.  I'U 
race  you  to  that  big  elm  for  a  box  of  chocolates." 

"DeBry's?" 

"  Glutton.     No.     Ordinaries." 

"  Give  me  to  those  primroses?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Not  croquettes?     Creams?  " 

"  Blue  creams." 

"  You'll  have  to  start." 

"  All  right." 

They  started. 

High  up  in  the  elm  tree  a  blue  jay  flashed  away 
screaming.  A  blackbird,  startled  from  her  nest  by  the 
scream,  chippered  down  the  wood,  filling  all  feathered 
things  with  fright.  Far  off  the  racers  heard  a  rabbit 
beat  his  warning  on  the  earth,  to  tell  his  fellows  of 
some  one  crazy  coming  to  spoil  the  April  for  them. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  cottage  shared  by  Rhoda  and  Dora  stood  well 
away  from  the  road.  It  was  an  old,  half-timbered 
house,  thatched  with  reeds  from  the  lake.  A  little 
flower  garden  stood  between  it  and  the  lane.  The 
small  scarlet  tulips  made  the  garden  bright.  Two  rows 
of  them  flowered  on  each  side  of  the  bricked  walk  from 
the  gate  to  the  door.  Elsewhere  in  the  garden  were 
double  daffodils,  a  few  hyacinths  (for  the  scent)  and 
some  wallflowers.  The  door  and  windows  stood  open, 
letting  in  the  southerly  sun.  In  the  glow  of  light,  one 
could  see  within,  to  the  cool  and  pretty  room,  feminine 
to  the  last  touch,  which  the  two  women  used  as  a 
sitting-room. 

The  room  ran  the  whole  length  of  the  cottage.  The 
wooden  staircase  which  led  to  the  upper  floor  stood  at 
one  end,  the  staircase  was  steep  and  simple.  It  had  a 
white  manrope  instead  of  rail  or  bannister.  The  man- 
rope  gave  it  yet  another  likeness  to  the  hatchway  of  a 
ship.  At  the  back  of  the  room,  at  the  east  end,  was  a 
door.  It  led  to  a  smaller  room,  the  dining-room,  which 
communicated  with  the  kitchen. 

The  sitting-room  pleased  one  continually  with  un- 
expected little  finenesses  of  taste.  It  was  a  spotless 
room.  The  wall-paper  was  white,  the  carpet  was  a 
matting  of  fine  white  straw.  The  sofa  was  covered 
with  a  white  chintz,  faintly  crossed  with  lines  of  green. 
The  same  chintz  covered  the  cushions  on  the  wide- 
armed  antique  kitchen  chairs.  Cream-coloured  Wedg- 
wood bowls,  full  of  flowers,  stood  upon  the  tables. 
There  was  a  small  French  mirror  over  the  mantel. 

201 


202          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

On  the  mantel  were  some  tiny  Worcester  ivy-leaf 
dishes,  and  a  collection  of  little  old  silver  toys.  The 
toys  were  of  several  kinds.  There  were  tiny  chairs, 
tiny  tables,  a  little  nef  on  wheels,  a  delicate  silver  cow, 
a  mannikin  with  a  wide  umbrella.  Time  had  given 
them  a  tarnish.  They  pleased  by  their  form.  In  the 
end,  things  do.  Their  grace  made  a  dainty  dish  for  the 
trivial  in  those  who  looked  at  them.  The  grey  of  their 
tarnish  took  a  value  from  the  withered  blue  of  the  china. 
At  each  end  of  the  mantel,  was  a  tall,  severe,  eighteenth- 
century  silver  candlestick.  These  stood  sentinel  in 
front  of  the  old  French  mirror.  To  the  thinking  visitor, 
the  rest  of  the  room  gave  evidence  that  man  had  not 
progressed  in  the  precise  ways  of  disciplined  thought, 
since  that  silver  was  reduced  to  law.  There  was  a  good 
bookcase  full  of  books:  Anatole  France,  George  Sand, 
some  Balzacs,  Pierre  Loti,  De  Maupassant.  The  English 
books  were  mostly  novels.  Dora's  tastes  were  shown 
by  a  book  on  mountaineering,  a  couple  of  Yellow  Books, 
half  a  dozen  Baedekers,  the  same  number  of  monographs 
on  famous  etchers,  and  five  huge  blue  folios  of  evidence 
before  the  Commission  to  enquire  into  the  Living-in 
System  in  its  Relation  to  Female  Shop  Assistants.  Dora 
had  once  collected  evidence  for  that  Commission.  The 
knowledge  that  she  had  once  helped  the  King's  "  right 
trusty  and  well-beloved  "  sustained  her  in  her  present 
idleness.  She  felt  that  she  had  earned  the  right  to 
"  go  on  to  something  else/'  to  develop  other  sides  of 
her.  On  one  of  the  little  dainty  tables  were  a  few  paper- 
bound  novels  beneath  a  silver  box  containing  cigarettes. 
Two  little  French  escritoires  stood  in  opposite  corners 
of  the  room.  Their  pigeon-holes  were  stuffed  with  letters 
and  papers.  Women's  desks  accumulate  material. 
They  are  like  women's  minds.  Men  have  the  habit  of 
clearing  out  "  rubbish,"  i.e.,  the  merely  old,  from  time 
to  time,  without  reference  to  sentiment.  Letters  which 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          203 

were  once  a  joy  or  an  agony  have  few  sentimental  claims 
upon  a  man,  after  the  emotion  has  lost  its  first  poignancy. 
A  man  always  has  the  present,  with  its  appetites  for 
work  and  pleasure,  to  keep  his  thoughts  external,  and 
in  front  of  him.  Rhoda's  desk  was  decorated  with  a 
Wedgwood  bowl  full  of  primroses  and  moss.  On  her 
blotting-pad  was  a  ball  of  blue  silk.  Beside  it  her 
knitting  needles  stuck  out  brightly,  at  angles,  from  a 
half-finished  tie  which  she  was  knitting.  Dora's  blotting- 
pad  bore  a  little  flat  silver  dish  containing  blue  sealing- 
wax,  a  seal  and  a  cigarette-holder. 

There  were  few  pictures  on  the  walls.  Flanking  the 
fireplace,  one  on  each  side,  were  charcoal  drawings  done 
(evidently  in  the  eighteenth  century)  by  a  Mr.  Jonas 
Heywood  of  the  Rissen.  One  of  them  represented  an 
eighteenth  century  gentleman  engaged  in  partridge 
shooting  full  face,  the  other  the  same  man  out  partridge- 
shooting  profile.  The  small  size  of  the  drawings  brought 
the  coveys  very  close  to  the  guns.  It  was  even  left 
doubtful  in  one  case  whether  it  were  the  gun  or  the 
partridge  which  exploded.  Antiquarian  sportsmen 
looking  at  these  sketches  noted  with  regret  the  length 
of  the  stubble  of  those  days,  when  the  harvest  was 
hand-reaped,  and  birds  lay  close. 

The  other  pictures  in  the  room  were  mostly  photo- 
graphs. There  was  a  signed  photograph  of  Maunsel, 
standing  in  mufti  on  a  terrace.  There  was  a  photo- 
graph of  Dora's  brother,  taken  shortly  before  he  was 
killed.  A  handsome  youth.  Dora  with  a  moustache. 
Dora  made  man.  His  sudden  death  partly  explained 
Dora's  recklessness.  She  had  been  much  devoted  to 
her  brother.  The  sudden  cutting  off  of  the  beloved 
brings  a  horror  which  daunts  the  soul.  Often  (perhaps 
more  in  women  than  among  men)  one  may  sense  under 
an  outward  gay  defiance,  a  mind  daunted  and  cowed, 
unable  to  go  on.  Dora  saw  her  brother  killed.  It  was 


204         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

at  a  Hunt  steeple-chase.  The  horse  fell  at  a  fence, 
breaking  the  rider's  neck.  She  was  watching  through 
her  race  glasses.  She  waited  for  him  to  rise,  just  as  the 
wife  of  a  boxer  may  watch  her  man,  sent  down  and  out, 
trying  to  fumble  up  before  the  gong  goes.  She  waited 
and  waited.  The  horse  scrambled  up.  The  horse  got 
up  and  went  on,  as  a  horse  will,  for  joy  of  the  race. 
He  took  the  fences  with  the  field.  His  stirrup-irons 
flashed  aloft  at  each  stride  with  a  rattle  and  yank. 
He  finished  in  front,  crazy  with  the  pride  of  it.  But  down 
at  the  fence  there  was  a  heap.  It  looked  like  a  crumpled 
carpet.  She  could  see  a  streak  of  white,  and  a  rag  of 
scarlet.  Then  a  little  crowd  formed.  A  little  crowd 
excited  in  the  middle.  A  boy  running  up,  peered 
between  men's  legs,  turned,  and  beckoned  excitedly  to 
his  fellow,  yelling  something.  Then  a  man  thrusting 
out  of  the  crowd  held  up  his  arms  over  the  fence  to  stop 
the  last  of  the  racers.  She  saw  the  horse  baulk  and  toss. 
She  saw  the  man  get  down,  and  run  round,  with  that 
funny  straddle  of  the  legs.  She  got  down  and  ran,  then, 
though  a  man,  running  to  meet  her,  tried  to  stop  her. 
Everybody  seemed  to  be  running  with  her,  even  "  Your 
old  friend  Balmy  Bill,"  the  bookie.  Ah,  that  memory, 
that  memory. 

Lying  on  the  sofa,  in  pain,  shivering  and  white,  glad 
of  the  fire,  even  on  that  warm  day,  Dora  went  over  her 
memory  with  the  knowledge  that  in  four  days'  time  it 
would  be  just  two  years  ago.  Men  do  not  realise  the 
poignancy  of  a  woman's  memories.  They  have  not 
woman's  power  of  living  over  again  what  has  entered 
in  to  hurt.  They  cannot  draw  fresh  agony  from  the 
agony  of  the  past  as  women  can  and  do.  What  a 
woman  loves,  and  what  has  hurt  her,  she  consecrates. 
Even  the  innocent  trespasser  may  not  tread  on  the 
ground  so  consecrated.  And  the  myth  plays  itself  over 
daily  in  the  heart.  It  is  a  sin,  hard  to  pardon,  when  one 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          205 

not  initiated  utters,  even  innocently,  a  text  from  the 
ritual. 

Lying  on  the  sofa  with  the  Mannequin  d 'Osier  on  the 
table  beside  her,  she  went  again  through  all  that  misery 
of  memory.  Balmy  Bill's  offer  of  brandy  for  the  lydy, 
a  smear  of  clay  on  Hugh's  face  as  they  lifted  him,  the 
sudden  knowledge  that  Hugh,  the  heart  of  her  life,  had 
stopped.  One  instant  rising  to  the  leap  with  Fireball, 
a  youth  with  the  blood  singing  in  him.  The  next  a 
heap  on  the  grass,  unable  forever  to  feel  the  nubble  of 
the  broken  bone,  unable  .  .  .  Couldn't  do  it. 

The  latch  of  the  garden-gate  clicked.  There  was  a 
noise  of  steps  on  the  bricks  of  the  walk.  Rhoda  and 
Lionel  were  loitering  up  to  the  house  to  lunch,  pausing 
to  admire  the  flowers.  Dora  smiled  wearily.  A  sudden 
spasm  of  pain  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes,  but  she 
fought  down  both  tears  and  pain.  She  wearily  brought 
herself  to  a  sitting  posture.  She  faced  the  couple  with 
the  old  heroism  of  woman.  Woman  holds  the  tradition 
of  behaviour  before  friends.  That  is  often  a  sharper 
test  of  courage  than  that  behaviour  before  the  enemy 
to  which  men  are  prompted  by  flutes  and  soft  recorders, 
their  natural  valour  and  the  boots  of  their  sergeants. 
She  forced  a  smile  on  to  her  face.  They  entered,  Rhoda 
with  the  feeling  that  she  had  been  "  rather  a  beast,"  in 
leaving  her  friend  to  face  her  wretchedness  alone, 
Lionel  a  little  weary  from  his  walk,  a  little  excited 
from  his  morning.  He  looked  at  Dora  with  his  clinical 
eye. 

"  Aren't  you  people  sick  of  being  out  of  doors?" 
Dora  asked.  "  There's  always  something  so  revolting 
to  me  about  people  who  are  always  out  of  doors.  We've 
got  beyond  being  out  of  doors.  We're  made  for  some- 
thing sensible.  Much  better  sit  over  the  fire  and  look 
at  my  John  drawing.  You  look  so  disgustingly  healthy 
if  you  stay  out  all  day.  And  then  you  make  pigs  of 


206         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

yourself  at  lunch.     Show  Mr.  Heseltine  the  way  to  the 
bathroom.     Hell  want  to  wash  his  hands/' 

In  the  bathroom  Lionel  felt  inclined  to  strip  and 
bathe.  He  had  come  down  that  morning  from  his 
chambers  in  the  Temple.  He  had  come  to  this  miracle 
of  cleanness  and  brightness,  this  white,  pretty  home,  so 
dainty,  so  spotless.  A  sense  of  personal  filth  came  over 
him  as  he  looked  at  each  new  cleanness.  The  enamel 
of  the  bath,  the  brass  of  the  taps,  the  windows,  the 
towels.  All  were  spotless.  The  air  and  the  sun  came 
purely  through  the  window.  There  were  no  smuts 
scurrying  on  the  bare,  well-holystoned  boards  of  the 
floor.  His  sense  of  cleanliness,  sharpened  by  many 
months  of  hospital  work,  told  him  that  he  was  the  only 
unclean  thing  there.  He  felt  that  the  filth  of  London 
was  thick  upon  him,  grimed  in  to  him,  the  stench  of 
London  in  his  clothes,  the  grime  in  his  hair.  Oh,  to 
cast  off  all  those  clothes,  plunge  in  water  in  the  spotless 
enamel,  ply  soap  and  scrubber  and  strigil,  get  into  the 
pores  the  clean  smell  of  Pinol,  then  rise  after  a  rinse,  to 
dress  in  white  towels,  in  a  big  enveloping  white  towel, 
at  once  warm  and  light  and  clean;  and  so  to  lunch 
purified.  Purified.  "  Would  to  God/'  he  thought, 
"  that  my  filthy  countrymen  could  come  to  care  for 
purity."  He  turned  up  his  shirt  sleeves  to  the  shoulder, 
took  off  his  collar  (with  a  rueful  look  at  the  place  where 
some  London  air  had  been  crushed  against  it),  and 
washed  with  the  wallowing  joy  of  a  sailor  after  rain. 
As  he  dried  his  mop  of  hair,  peering  at  himself,  between 
rubs,  in  the  mirror,  he  felt  to  the  full  the  loveliness  of  a 
woman's  delight  in  cleanliness,  the  fineness  of  that 
standard  of  life,  the  want  of  that  standard  in  Mrs. 
Holder.  "  Men  live  like  pigs,"  he  thought.  He  meant 
that  Rhoda,  standing  in  her  simple  white  flannel  blouse, 
in  the  sun  flots  of  a  ride  in  April,  was  most  unlike  a  man. 
He  preened  himself  before  the  glass.  A  hair-brush  had 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          207 

been  left  for  him.  He  saw  that  it  was  a  woman's  brush. 
"  Thoughtful  of  them,"  he  thought,  wondering,  an 
instant  later,  if  the  thoughtfulness  had  been  implanted 
in  them  by  brothers  or  lovers.  He  would  not  use  the 
brush.  He  would  as  soon  have  used  another  person's 
tooth-brush.  He  preened  with  a  pocket-comb. 

At  lunch  he  held  forth  on  the  beauty  of  Feasts  of 
Purification.  How  sensible  it  would  be  to  give  Feasts 
of  Purification  instead  of  dinners.  Everybody  in 
London,  thanks  to  the  idiotic  Poor  Law  and  indiscrimi- 
nate charity,  can  be  sure  of  a  dinner  of  some  sort,  if  not 
of  several  dinners.  But  nobody  can  be  sure  of  being 
even  tolerably  clean.  Why  does  not  some  cleanly 
person  who  has  achieved  the  impossible  by  keeping 
clean  in  London,  bid  his  friends  to  some  sacrament  of 
the  wash,  to  a  feast  of  many  courses,  hot,  tepid,  and 
cold,  "  ten  feet  deep  and  as  clear  as  gin/'  with  spotless 
bath-robes  for  each  guest?  Some  white  music  or  other 
might  play  to  them.  Or  no,  not  music,  the  run  and 
glitter  of  dripping  fountains.  And  the  floor  and  walls 
would  be  of  white  enamel.  And  the  perfumes  would 
be  good,  cleanly  hydrochloric  and  carbolic. 

After  lunch,  Rhoda  made  coffee  for  them,  while  Dora 
relapsed  to  her  place  on  the  sofa.  Rhoda  was  attentive 
to  Dora,  smoothed  her  cushions  for  her,  tended  her 
gently,  prepared  hot  milk  for  her.  Lionel  had  the  tact 
to  walk  into  the  garden. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  this  afternoon?  "  Dora 
asked.  "  I  mean,  where  will  you  go  ?  " 

"  I  hadn't  made  any  plans,  dear.  I  hoped  so  that 
you'd  be  well  enough  to  come  with  us.  You  won't  go 
totheFusters?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  suppose  I  ought.     It's  not  far." 

"  Dear.  You  oughtn't  to  go.  You  ought  to  go  to 
bed."  She  very  gently  took  her  friend's  head  in  her 
cool  hands.  "  Dear,  your  head's  dreadful  hot  and 


208         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

bangish.  Won't  you  let  me  put  you  to  bed?  I  could 
come  up  and  read  to  you." 

"  What  about  him?'1  Dora  indicated  the  garden 
with  a  glance  of  the  eye.  "  No.  I  am  a  pig,  but  I'm 
not  going  to  be  a  swine."  She  caught  Rhoda's  hand, 
and  fondled  it  with  the  weary  tenderness  of  the  sick. 
She  got  up  from  the  sofa  and  peered  at  her  face  in  the 
mirror,  patting  her  hair.  "  I  suppose  I  look  a  wreck," 
she  said.  "  I  wish  you'd  get  some  rouge,  Rhoda. 
What's  the  time,  now?  A  quarter  to  three.  I'll  go 
up  and  get  tidy.  I'll  go  to  the  Fusters.  It'll  do  me 
good."  She  paused,  primming  her  lips  at  her  image, 
and  then  continued,  "  All  the  same,  I'm  glad  I'm  not  a 
man."  She  looked  shrewdly  at  Rhoda's  vivid  face,  to 
see  if  Rhoda  were  finding  it  blessed  to  be  a  woman. 
Rhoda  hung  her  head.  Her  face  had  a  deep  gentleness 
upon  it. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rhoda.     "  Men  haven't  got  it  all." 

Dora  smiled  a  pained  smile.  It  flickered  off  her  lips 
with  a  wryness  which  told  of  an  inner  pang.  She  drew 
closer  to  her  friend,  looking  at  her.  With  two  fingers 
she  brushed  an  imaginary  speck  from  Rhoda's  tie.  It 
was  done  caressingly.  Rhoda's  head  drooped  lower  to 
hide  the  mantling  colour.  She  caught  the  hand  swiftly 
to  her  cheek. 

"  It  must  be  rather  wonderful,"  said  Dora,  kissing 
her,  and  moving  away.  She  was  afraid  of  emotion  now ; 
very  much  afraid  of  the  affections.  Love  filled  life  and 
then  tore  it  in  two.  She  was  going  to  be  very  careful 
to  keep  out  love.  She  was  going  to  be  defiant,  treat 
the  world  as  a  tavern.  She  would  have  companions, 
perhaps,  whose  roads  would  turn  off  when  the  time  came, 
or  fellow  soldiers  who  would  fall  out  of  the  ranks  un- 
wept; but  never  more  than  that,  never  any  one  nearer, 
never  love  again.  She  would  do  mad  things.  She  had 
been  convinced  that  the  way  to  happiness  was  not  to 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          209 

care  too  much.  To  treat  life  as  a  game,  enjoy  the  game, 
and  take  no  heed  of  the  players,  that  was  the  true 
wisdom.  The  defiance  which  she  used  now  as  a  shield 
made  her  turn  near  the  stairs,  with  her  gesture  of 
cynicism. 

"  I've  ordered  supper  at  six-thirty,"  she  said. 
"  Don't  wait  for  me.  Sir  Borman's  going  to  show  me 
his  daffodils."  She  smiled  with  shut  eyes. 

"  Dora." 

Dora  mimicked  the  manner  of  Sir  Borman: 

"  Have  you  seen  my  Trumpet-Majors  this  year,  Miss 
Plunket?  It's  a  variety  I've  been  trying  to  get  here. 
It's  a  larger  flower  than  the  Darling.  It's  rather  more 
like  the  Phoebus  Apollo.  Except  that  the  trumpet  is 
more  sharply  dentated."  She  had  her  hand  upon  the 
manrope.  She  was  only  doing  one  of  the  countless 
self-sacrifices  which  make  up  a  woman's  life. 

"  Dora  dear." 

"  Yes." 

"  Dear  Dora." 

"  Oh,  rubbish.  I  wonder  if  you'd  be  a  saint,  and  sing 
out  to  Jane  to  bring  me  my  grey  dress.  It's  in  the  press 
in  the  passage." 

"  I'll  get  it." 

"  I'll  get  it  myself."  Dora  turned  back  into  the  room, 
humming  in  broken  scraps,  her  favourite  ditty  of  "  Oben, 
wo  die  Sterne  gliihen."  "  Now,  Rhoda,"  she  said. 
"  Run  away  and  give  him  a  cigarette."  Rhoda  took 
her  friend  by  the  shoulders  and  kissed  her  on  both 
cheeks,  much  moved.  Her  eyes  had  tears  in  them. 
Dora  looked  at  her  friend  inscrutably. 

"  You  poor  old  thing,"  she  said.  "  Well.  I  must 
dress.  You  run  away,  now.  Jane'll  hook  me.  I'll 
just  tell  her.  You're  rather  a  dear."  She  leaned  over 
languidly  and  kissed  Rhoda's  burning  cheek.  Hurry- 
ing out  into  the  passage,  she  made  rather  a  lot  of  noise 

o 


210         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

pulling  her  dress  from  the  press.  After  a  peep  to  see  if 
the  man  were  still  out  of  the  room,  she  made  a  dash  with 
her  spoil  for  the  hatchway.  She  sang  in  pants  as  she 
climbed.  Rhoda,  looking  at  herself  in  the  glass  of  her 
own  room,  before  running  down  to  join  Lionel,  heard 
that  song  of  resurrection  coming  from  a  mouth  full  of 
hairpins,  a  word  at  the  exodus  of  each  pin. 


CHAPTER  XII 

NEAR  the  top  of  Ponton  Hill,  the  wood  ends.  Between 
the  wood  and  the  summit  there  is  a  bald  patch,  covered 
with  coarse  grass.  The  bald  patch  is  some  thirty  yards 
across.  It  is  like  a  ring  of  paleness  shutting  in  the 
summit.  In  the  summer,  that  grass  is  the  haunt  of 
blindworms,  not  usually  common  elsewhere.  At  the 
very  top  of  the  hill,  sprouted  with  a  clump  of  trees,  there 
is  an  ancient  earthwork.  A  trench  twelve  feet  deep 
surrounds  a  mound  twenty-five  feet  high.  The  interior 
of  the  mound  is  hollowed  out  into  a  basin,  about  fifteen 
yards  across.  The  earthwork  is  so  small  that  anti- 
quarians are  much  puzzled  by  it.  What  was  its  use? 
Why  did  men,  who  had  no  iron,  go  to  the  trouble  of 
making  this  trenched  mound?  Much  care  went  to  its 
making.  The  outer  trench  is  symmetrical,  a  perfect 
circle.  The  mound  is  symmetrical.  Rabbits  have 
made  some  of  it  fall.  The  red  clay  lies  in  a  heap  in  one 
place,  torn  out  by  the  roots  of  a  fallen  tree.  Otherwise 
the  place  is  not  much  changed  (but  for  the  trees  and  the 
weeds)  since  the  unknown  delvers  left  it.  It  stands 
very  high.  It  commands  a  wide  prospect.  "  A  very 
good  look-out  place/'  some  people  say.  "  Men 
stationed  there  could  watch  the  ford  of  the  Drowse/' 
the  gleam  of  which  flashes  out  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
to  the  south-east.  How  the  ford  was  watched  at  night 
is  not  explained.  "  Probably  by  some  system  of  swift 
runners.  These  ancient  Britons  were  probably  very 
swift  runners."  Others,  still  prone  to  thoughts  of  war, 
think  that  the  mound  was  a  "  signal  station."  "  The 
ancient  Britons  must  have  had  some  system  of  signal- 
ling/' Macaulay's  ballad  about  the  Armada  is  quoted. 

211 


212         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  Twelve  fair  counties  saw  the  gleam  from  Malvern's 
lonely  height."  "  Depend  upon  it,"  these  say,  "  this 
place  was  a  place  where  they  lit  beacon  fires.  At  the 
time  of  the  Jubilee  when  they  lit  a  fire  here,  they  could 
see  it  in  Drowcester,  which  must  be  twelve  miles  as 
the  crow  flies.  That  just  shows  you,"  they  exclaim. 
Others  say  that  it  wasn't  made  by  the  ancient  Britons 
at  all.  "It  is  an  artificial  rabbit-warren,  made  in 
Elizabethan  times  by  some  man  fond  of  rabbiting. 
It's  the  very  place  for  a  rabbit-warren.  Look  how  the 
rabbits  have  burrowed  in  the  sides  there."  Some  think 
that  the  place  was  a  religious  place,  "  an  high  place," 
(quoting  Numbers  xxiii.).  This  opinion  is  confirmed 
in  them  by  the  trees.  "  It's  a  grove  of  trees.  Of  course 
the  trees  are  young,  but  they're  the  descendants  of  the 
old  trees.  I  daresay,  if  you  were  to  dig,  you'd  come 
across  the  altar  in  the  middle."  Some  say  that  the 
place  was  a  fold  or  pen  in  which  primitive  man  saved 
his  cattle  from  the  wolves.  Some,  in  spite  of  the  small 
size  of  the  enclosure,  think  that  it  was  the  home  of  a 
chief.  They  believe  that  the  cup-like  hollow  of  the 
mound  was  once  roofed  in,  with  skins  stretched  upon 
wattles.  They  think  that  the  chief  held  court  there, 
ruling  his  clan,  dating  his  proclamations  from  it,  "  at 
our  mound  in  Ponton."  Some,  who  have  not  con- 
sidered the  matter  much  (the  makers  of  the  cycling 
maps  are  among  these),  describe  the  place  vaguely  as 
"a  camp."  Who  shall  say  who  is  "right"?  Nobody 
knows.  Nobody  ever  will  know.  It  is  best  that  we 
should  make  up  our  minds  at  once  as  to  its  value  in 
human  interest  here  and  now,  its  power  to  add  power 
to  the  brain,  by  brightening  a  facet  the  more.  It 
belongs  to  the  past.  It  belongs  to  a  past  so  dead  that 
its  true  significance  has  gone  from  the  world.  Better 
leave  it  in  the  past.  Better  accept  it  thankfully  as  a 
place  where  pure  wind  blows,  a  place  with  a  view  of 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         213 

England,  much  England.  Standing  there  one  sees  the 
many  coloured  fields,  a  gleam  of  river,  city  spires 
flaming  out  of  smoke,  hills  hiding  the  sea,  all  the  theatre 
of  the  play  of  life.  One  can  boil  a  kettle  with  the  twigs 
which  have  fallen  into  the  trench,  and  make  tea  there 
peacefully,  and  drink  it,  and  give  God  thanks.  After- 
wards, in  the  quiet  there,  one  can  try  to  get  at  deeper 
truths  than  the  truth  which  the  savage  sought.  The 
savage  dug  with  a  flint,  shovelling  the  earth.  We  dig 
with  something  sharp  in  the  brain.  We  dig  in  Paradise 
and  in  the  stars. 

Rhoda  led  Lionel  out  of  Ponton  Wood  to  the  space  of 
grass.  "  There,"  she  said,  "  there's  my  Sacred  Grove. 
Isn't  it  just  like  a  sacred  grove?"  She  paused  a 
moment,  and  then  asked,  "  Why  are  groves  so  sacred, 
Lionel?" 

"  Oh,  many  reasons,"  he  said,  wondering  how  much 
of  the  truth  she  would  like  to  hear,  "  but  generally 
there's  some  rather  subtle,  strange,  religious  belief  at 
the  back  of  them.  A  grove  at  the  top  of  a  hill,  in  '  an 
high  place,'  is  difficult  to  get  at.  That  gives  it  a  kind 
of  sacredness.  Then  it's  aloof  from  the  ordinary  mortal. 
From  the  daily  life  of  the  tribe,  that  is.  But  perhaps 
that's  the  same  thing.  Then  it's  secret.  A  priest  can 
put  away  a  heretic  without  much  trouble  in  a  grove  of 
trees  at  the  top  of  a  hill.  And  in  the  same  way,  he  can, 
if  he  likes,  arrange  all  sorts  of  Mumbo  Jumbo  to  impress 
the  people.  The  great  dodge  is  to  make  an  idol  whistle. 
You  make  an  ordinary  whistle,  and  stick  it  in  the  idol's 
mouth.  You  blow  it  by  squeezing  a  hidden  bladder 
into  it.  You  arrange  things  so  that  you  can  sit  well 
away  from  the  idol  when  you  work  the  oracle.  The 
congregation  get  far  too  big  a  jump  to  want  to  suspect 
you." 

"  What  a  lot  of  things  you  know,  Lionel.  Have  you 
actually  seen  that  done  ?  " 


214          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  I've  known  of  it  being  done.  And  I've  seen  the 
bladder  thing  and  the  whistle  in  the  idol.  But  I've 
generally  kept  clear  of  medicine  men.  There's  no  need 
to  waste  your  strength  in  fighting  little  business  rivals. 
I  don't  know  that  we're  so  much  better."  By  this  time 
they  had  arrived  at  the  grove.  Lionel  looked  at  it 
curiously. 

"  So  it  gives  you  a  religious  sense  ?  "  he  asked.  "  What 
sort  of  a  religious  sense?  Established  Church?  "  She 
smiled,  and  blushed  a  little. 

"  Something  with  a  little  more  head  on  it?  "  he  sug- 
gested. "  Tell  me,  Rhoda.  Does  it  make  you  want  to 
dance?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  It  gives  me  a  longing  to  be 
free." 

"  How  curious,"  he  said.  "  I  wonder  if  everybody 
feels  that,  or  whether  you  and  I  are  rather  sensitive  to 
the  same  things." 

"  Do  you  feel  that,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes.  There's  something  in  being  on  a  hill-top 
which  makes  my  heart  beat.  It  might  be  merely  the 
pure  air  giving  a  fillip."  He  stopped,  to  give  his  ruth- 
less mind  a  chance  to  clear  itself  of  possible  sentiment. 
"  No,"  he  went  on.  "  It's  the  hill-top.  It's  a  jumping 
off  place  for  the  spirit." 

"  Don't  you  think  the  view?  "  said  Rhoda,  shading 
her  eyes,  as  she  faced  to  the  south-west.  "  Mightn't 
that  have  something  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  get  beyond  that,"  he  said,  musing.  "  It 
goes  deeper  than  that.  The  short-sighted  get  it." 
They  stared  together  at  the  view.  They  saw  it  as  the 
rooks  saw  it,  from  the  heights,  with  nothing  above  them 
but  clouds  bowling  on  the  blue.  Bowling  aloft  there, 
so  near,  so  very  near,  they  were  strangely  like  the  bows 
of  ships.  Ships  making  a  bubble,  nosing  deep  into  it, 
white  to  the  rail.  The  softness  of  the  white  was  another 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         215 

tenderness  to  the  minds  of  the  watchers.  And  beyond 
that  softness  was  the  blue,  infinitely  bright  and  gentle, 
an  intense,  glad  flame  of  blue.  The  wind  made  a  noise 
in  the  grove.  The  trees  bowed  a  little,  giving  to  the 
blast,  with  a  shivering  of  touching  branches.  The 
branches  were  not  in  leaf.  There  was  a  dustiness  of 
buds  upon  them.  They  were  at  that  moment  when 
the  beauty  of  the  branch  against  the  sky  has  that  other 
beauty  of  the  beginning  leaf  upon  it.  Far  down  below 
in  the  valley,  England  was  at  peace.  The  fields  were 
like  the  lands  in  a  map.  Smoke  marked  the  villages. 
A  spire  stood  out.  Drowcester  Cathedral  tower  glowed 
out  white  like  a  lighthouse.  Cows  in  a  meadow  called. 
Their  moving  was  like  the  ploughed  field  speaking. 
The  air  was  an  intoxication  with  the  laughter  of  the 
blackbirds.  Up  there  on  the  hill,  the  sense  of  posses- 
sion filled  the  heart.  The  landscape  was  a  heritage 
displayed.  One  owns  only  what  the  imagination  grasps. 
Here  for  a  moment  the  imagination  glowed  with  the 
vision  of  immense  possession.  And  with  this  came 
an  exultation  of  being  thrust  far  up,  by  the  power  of 
the  earth,  into  the  cup  of  the  sky,  into  a  life  new  and 
strange,  fiery,  and  of  a  new  glory.  Long  ago  in  the 
past  men  of  strong  passions  felt  the  same  there.  They 
hallowed  the  hill-top  in  intense  moments  till  it  had  the 
life  they  gave  it.  Perhaps  some  aura,  or  influence,  of 
that  old  hallowing,  lingered.  Places  where  the  mood 
of  man  has  been  intense  are  haunted,  according  to  the 
depth  of  the  mood.  Wherever  love,  or  hate,  or  joy  has 
been,  the  spirit  of  the  earth  is  coloured.  We  walk  in  a 
subtle  air  which  takes  colour  from  our  intensity.  Those 
who  follow  in  our  paths  sense  suddenly  the  rosiness  or 
blackness  of  the  places  where  we  have  felt.  Our  lives 
are  creating  spirits  which  will  haunt  the  ways  we  have 
trodden.  We  talk  of  our  moods  as  though  they  were 
our  own.  What  can  say  that  they  are  ours  ?  We  walk 


216         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

the  air  which  has  received  the  spirits  of  all  the  dead 
and  the  longings  of  all  the  living.  For  the  rest,  we  are 
mainly  water,  and  water  is  useful  for  making  mud- 
pies,  and  for  reflecting  the  sun. 

Lionel  looked  at  Rhoda  with  the  feeling  that  that 
young  English  girl  was  worth  all  the  views  in  the  world. 
Once,  long  before,  he  had  looked  down  on  India  from 
above  the  snow-line.  He  thought  of  that  now.  There 
were  pinnacles  splintering  on  the  sky,  a  film  of  cataract 
drowsing  down  a  crag  in' rainbows,  mist  in  eddies,  peaks 
stainless  in  the  glare.  Beneath  was  the  gloom  of  pine- 
forests,  making  the  earth-beasts'  shoulders  shaggy.  It 
was  cold  there.  He  had  cooked  and  eaten  and  gone  on, 
he  and  his  chief,  old  Sir  Patrick.  He  had  looked  on 
Asia,  and  talked  of  the  cold.  And  now  this  English 
earth  was  stirring  up  religion  in  him. 

"  How  do  you  feel,  Rhoda?"  he  asked.  He  could 
not  help  it;  but  his  voice  shook  a  little.  She  looked 
at  him  quickly,  looked  quickly  down,  then  turned  as 
quickly  to  him. 

"  I'm  very  well,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  You  look  well."  He  came  a  step  nearer.  Some- 
thing in  her  face  made  him  look  again  at  the  view  with 
a  quickening  of  joy  in  it.  "  Life  is  kind  sometimes,"  he 
said,  gazing.  "  Tell  me,  Rhoda.  What  have  been  the 
good  days  in  your  life?  " 

"  The  good  days?  "  she  said.  "  I  don't  know.  So 
many  of  the  days  have  been  good.  A  woman  doesn't 
count  the  good  days.  She  remembers  the  bad  days, 
and  counts  the  surpassing  days." 

"  And  what  were  your  surpassing  days,  Rhoda?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  answered,  staring  away  into  a  distant 
century.  "  Let  me  think  what  was  a  surpassing  day. 
The  day  I  left  school  was  a  surpassing  day.  I  had  a 
five  pound  note  to  spend  as  I  pleased,  and  afterwards  I 
went  to  see  Twelfth  Night:9 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          217 

"What  did  you  buy?"  he  asked.  She  turned  the 
gold  bangle  on  her  wrist. 

"  Might  I  touch?  "  he  said. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  that  for?  " 

"  It  would  give  me  a  share  in  your  surpassing  day." 
«  "  No,"  she  said.     "  I  was  very  missish  when  I  bought 
this." 

"  I  want  to  know  about  that." 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  girls  are.  Tremendous  senti- 
ment about  every  tremendous  humbug.  I'm  not  going 
to  tell  you  about  that.  I  don't  want  you  to  share  in  a 
me  who  is  dead." 

"  Will  you  let  me  share  in  another  surpassing  day?  " 

"  Some  day,  perhaps." 

"  What  was  the  last  surpassing  day?  " 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure  that  there  has  been  another. 
One  only  leaves  school  once  in  one's  life." 

"  One  leaves  school  every  day  of  one's  life.  Every 
instant.  Every  cell  of  body,  and  every  tick  of  time's  a 
school.  It  gives  us  a  new  sensation  and  teaches  us  a 
new  thing." 

"  To-day's  a  holiday.    Women  only  learn  in  holidays." 

"  When  the  brothers  are  at  home." 

"  Don't  be  horrid."  She  smiled,  as  she  turned 
towards  the  grove.  They  paused  at  the  brink  of  the 
ditch. 

"  We  haven't  learned  about  this  sacred  grove  yet, 
Rhoda.  Is  there  a  path,  or  do  you  just  go  down  the 
ditch?" 

"  You  just  go  down  the  ditch.  What  do  you  think 
this  place  was  made  for?  " 

"  A  special  time  in  life,"  he  said.  "  That's  what  the 
world  is  made  for.  And  the  works  of  man.  And 
woman,  too."  He  went  scrambling  down  into  the 
ditch,  balancing  himself.  Turning  at  the  bottom,  he 
held  out  a  hand  to  her. 


2i 8          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  Yes.  But  what  time?  "  she  asked,  coming  gingerly 
down,  putting  out  a  shy  hand  to  him. 

"  This  place?     Or  the  world?     Or  the  woman?  " 

"  Well.  All  three.  This  is  school.  For  what  time 
was  this  place  made  ?  " 

"  For  Spring-time." 

11  And  the  world?" 

"  For  now." 

"  And  the  last?  What  about  the  last?  You're  not 
going  to  say  that  we  are  made  for  any  special  time?  " 
She  paused,  with  one  foot  upon  the  spring  of  the  mound. 
She  looked  at  him  with  wide,  grey,  virginal  eyes,  frank 
with  a  girl's  courage. 

"  You're  made  for  the  moment,  just  as  I  am,"  he  said. 
"This  moment?" 

"  For  the  moment."  A  sense  that  this  was  not  the 
moment  made  him  plod  up  the  mound.  Catching  a 
tree  trunk  with  one  hand  he  leaned  down,  caught  her 
hand,  and  drew  her  up  beside  him. 

"  How  strong  you  are,"  she  said. 

"  I  know  how  to  use  what  strength  I  have.  I'm  not 
strong,"  he  explained.  They  scrambled  up  to  the  top 
in  a  race.  Rhoda  won.  She  watched  his  last  scramb- 
ling steps  from  a  post  above  him.  She  laughed.  "  Well. 
Come  on,"  she  said.  "  Come  and  look  at  the  view  from 
the  tipty-top."  She  led  the  way  round  the  rim  of  the 
cup.  She  stopped  at  the  eastern  point.  Standing 
close  together,  they  peered  through  the  trees  at  the 
distant  river. 

"  It's  not  a  good  place  for  a  dance,"  he  said. 

"  No,  not  to  dance,"  she  answered,  "  but  to  be  free. 
The  heart  dances  inside." 

"Your  heart?" 

"  Yes.  Do  you  think  they  danced  up.  here,  the 
ancient  Britons  ?  " 

"  Yes.  A  kind  of  dance."  She  sensed  some  reserva- 
tion in  his  mind. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         219 

"A  horrid  kind?" 

"  A  thanksgiving  for  the  bounty  of  the  earth."  She 
wrinkled  her  pretty  nose  disdainfully. 

"  I  don't  think  I  like  this  place/'  she  said.  "  It's 
got  too  thin  lips.  I  think  it  drank  blood." 

"  Heart's  blood." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  " 

"  It's  the  only  coin  which  can  set  free.  Yet  who 
knows  ?  I  think  this  cup  is  the  symbol  of  the  cauldron. 
It  may  be  nothing  of  the  kind.  It  may  be  a  desirable 
residence,  where  a  patriarch  lived  surrounded  by  his 
cattle." 

They  went  loitering  across  the  grass  towards  the  wood. 

"  How  is  your  work  going  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I'm  trying  to  begin  to  do  it,"  he  said.  She  felt  that 
he  didn't  want  to  talk  of  it. 

"  You'd  rather  not  talk  of  it.  A  woman  so  seldom 
hears  about  a  man's  work." 

"  They're  spared  a  good  deal,"  he  said,  brightening. 
"  The  only  necessary  work  is  getting  food  to  grow  and 
getting  food  to  market.  And  we've  invented  all  this 
fever.  And  life  lasts  for,  say,  twenty  potent  years. 
And  one  never  knows  if  there'll  be  any  thereafter.  It 
may  end  altogether." 

"  I  don't  think  it  can,"  said  Rhoda. 

"  Well,  it  changes  altogether,"  he  said.  "  And  that's 
as  hard  to  bear." 

"What's  the  time,  now?"  she  asked.  "  If  we've 
time,  I'll  take  you  back  by  the  brook.  Don't  you  love 
to  be  by  running  water?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  I  like  running  water.  It's 
the  only  thing  which  is  quite  as  senseless  as  life.  It 
makes  me  see  what  man  could  do  with  life  if  he  would 
treat  it  as  the  chattering  wasteful  force  it  is.  Dam  it 
up,  and  stank  it  up.  Lead  it  into  needed  channels,  and 
turn  a  few  mills  with  it." 


220         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"What  mills?" 

"  The  Mills  of  the  Gods,  Rhoda." 

"  What  mills  are  they?" 

"  That  is  what  we're  here  to  find  out.  God  has  a 
purpose  in  the  world.  Life  has  a  purpose,  or  it  couldn't 
be.  Man  will  learn  what  that  purpose  is  some  day. 
Then  there'll  be  a  world,  Rhoda." 

"What  sort  of  world?" 

"  A  dainty  dish  to  set  before  Rhoda/' 

"  The  world's  a  dainty  dish  on  a  day  like  this,"  she 
said.  "  It's  this  way  to  the  brook.  Is  it  four  yet?  " 

"  Just  upon." 

"  Then  we've  time  before  tea."  She  slipped  nimbly 
through  a  swing-gate  with  a  lightness  which  made  him 
marvel  at  her  grace.  She  paused  to  watch  him  swing 
through  after  her.  "  What  wonderful  things  you  tell 
me,"  she  said.  "  How  wonderful  life  must  be  to  you, 
believing  that." 

"  It  isn't,"  he  said. 

"  Ah,  do  you  say  that,  Lionel?  "  she  asked.  "  Isn't 
it  an  atonement  to  have  the  ideas?  What's  the  good 
of  ideas,  if  they  don't  make  life  more  glorious  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  What  is  the  good  of  them,  if  one 
can't  apply  them  to  life  ?  " 

"  But  you  will,  Lionel.  That's  what  you're  doing," 
she  cried.  "  That's  where  you're  so  wonderful.  You're 
going  to  do  wonderful  things.  And  then,  when  you've 
done  them,  I  shall  say,  '  Yes.  I  know  him.  He's  a 
friend  of  mine/  " 

They  were  stopped  by  a  hedge.  Lionel  stamped  it 
down  for  her.  The  brook  lay  beyond  them.  A  note  of 
its  voice  came  to  them.  It  was  a  plaintive  note,  like 
the  note  of  a  bird,  repeated  over  and  over,  as  an  ever- 
changing  ripple  slipped  from  a  stone. 

"  Listen  to  that,"  said  Rhoda.  "  It  was  making 
just  that  noise  when  the  ancient  Britons  were  being 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          221 

beasts.  Isn't  it  like  a  voice  trying  to  catch  a  tune.  A 
little  gentle  voice  ?  " 

"  It  comes  in  a  Chopin  thing,"  he  answered.  "  What 
is  the  thing?  "  He  hummed  it.  The  gentle  intricate 
notes  were  like  the  gurgle  of  swift  water  slipping.  "  Do 
you  know  that?  "  he  asked.  "  The  man's  mind  became 
a  brook  to  do  that.  He  gives  you  the  point  of  view  of 
the  stone,  too.  Art  is  worth  doing,  when  you  can  do 
it  with  that  intensity."  They  walked  to  the  brook. 
They  dropped  dry  leaves  together,  into  the  wrinkling 
eddies,  to  see  them  sucked  down  under  the  stone  which 
made  the  gurgle.  They  sailed  sticks  down  a  reach. 
Rhoda  maintained  that  she  was  Oxford.  The  sticks 
made  a  good  race  down  a  rapid,  then  loitered  among 
brambles,  turning  end  for  end.  Lastly  they  reached 
an  elbow  of  the  brook,  where  water  turned  lazily  in  a 
circle.  The  sticks  paused  outside  the  eddy,  hesitating. 
They  twitched  together,  and  slipped  inside,  as  though 
they  had  made  up  their  minds.  Their  backers  flung 
clods  at  them  to  drive  them  out.  The  clods  made  the 
sticks  bob,  but  failed  to  clear  them.  They  continued 
to  jog  together,  round  the  circle,  feeling  the  stream  at 
each  curve,  but  never  quite  making  up  their  minds  to 
set  out  again. 

"  That's  what  happens  to  things,"  said  Lionel. 
"  They  get  jolly  comfortable  in  a  backwash,  and  forget 
that  they  aren't  in  the  stream." 

He  broke  off  suddenly  to  look  at  something  in  the 
water. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  said  Rhoda.  Something  was  scurry- 
ing up-stream  along  the  mud  at  the  bottom.  A  settling 
trail  of  mud  drifted  away  from  its  swiftness.  "  Is  it  a 
water-rat  ?  " 

"No.     It  can't  be  a  trout?" 

"  No.  An  otter.  An  otter.  I've  always  longed  to 
see  an  otter."  The  scurrying  creature  gleamed. 


222         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"No.  It's  not  an  otter,"  said  Lionel.  "I  know 
what  it  is.  It's  a  water-ousel.  They  can  go  like  that, 
under  water,  like  a  fish.  And  when  they  wish,  they 
catch  hold  of  a  weed  and  keep  themselves  under  water, 
like  Ibsen's  Wild  Duck.  Doesn't  that  make  your 
spirit  sing  ?  " 

"  You  mean  the  power  of  living  in  another  element? 
He  has  to  let  go  in  the  end." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  sighing.  "  So  have  we,  in  the 
end.  And  about  all  we  achieve  is  to  stir  up  the  mud  a 
little." 

They  loitered  along  the  brook.  No  one  can  walk  fast 
by  running  water.  The  beauty  of  the  babbling  changed 
to  a  beauty  of  rippling,  and  that  to  a  depth  and  coolness, 
clear,  though  with  motes  in  suspension,  sandy  below, 
shot  across  with  the  dance  of  light.  Near  the  little 
plank  bridge  they  found  a  bottle.  It  had  once  carried 
milk  for  a  picnic  party.  Lionel  glanced  along  the  bank 
for  a  supply  of  stones.  Not  far  away  there  was  a  place 
where  the  cows  of  many  generations  had  trodden  down 
the  bank.  They  had  gone  to  water  there,  day  after 
day.  They  had  stamped  themselves  a  road  there. 
The  floods  of  many  Marches  had  widened  the  track  into 
a  bay.  Eddies  had  left  sand  there,  little  beds  of  pebbles, 
water-logged  thorns,  leaves  with  lime  crust  on  them. 
Lionel  hurried  there,  to  gather  stones. 

"  We  can't  go  from  here  till  we  have  had  cock-shies 
at  this  bottle,"  he  explained.  "  That  would  be  scorn- 
ing the  gift  of  the  Gods," 

"  Bring  the  stones,  then,"  said  Rhoda.  He  brought 
them.  He  set  the  bottle  moving  drunkenly  down  the 
current.  The  pair  leaned  on  the  hand-rail,  with 
pebbles  ranged  in  a  row  in  front  of  them.  They  opened 
fire  as  the  bottle  bobbed  within  range.  The  bottle 
bobbed  strangely  as  bottles  in  a  seaway  will.  It  had  a 
kind  of  drunken  roll,  which  hove  it  clear  of  many  a  good 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         223 

pebble.  The  water  splashed  all  round  the  gyrating 
neck.  The  glass  ducked  and  curtsied  to  the  volleying. 
Lionel's  shot  hit  the  water  sharply.  He  was  irritated. 

"  I  can't  hit  it,"  said  Rhoda.  She  laughed.  Lionel 
snatched  a  loose  brick  from  the  supports  of  the  bridge, 
hove  it  down  fiercely,  vertically,  as  the  bottle  nodded 
into  the  current  under  the  plank.  There  was  a  great 
splash. 

"  Missed  it,"  cried  Rhoda. 

"  I'll  get  it  as  it  comes  out  on  the  other  side,"  he  said. 
He  turned,  fitting  a  "  smooth  stone  out  of  the  brook  " 
into  his  curved  forefinger. 

"  No,"  said  Rhoda.  "  It  ought  to  be  allowed  to  go 
free,  now.  Let  it  go,  Lionel." 

"  Sentiment,"  he  said.  The  bottle  glided  out  into 
the  open.  It  had  an  air  of  unconcern.  It  seemed  like 
a  thought,  precise,  and  self-complete,  going  untroubled 
through  all  the  vagueness  of  folly.  "  Let  it  go,"  said 
Rhoda.  "  I'd  like  you  to  let  it  go." 

"  What's  your  idea?  "  he  asked. 

"  I'd  like  you  to  let  it  go." 

"  Even  to  the  half  of  my  kingdom,"  he  answered. 
He  held  out  the  pebble  to  her.  She  put  out  her  hand 
to  take  it.  He  pressed  the  pebble  into  her  palm,  and 
held  her  hand  for  just  that  very  little  longer.  She 
whitened.  Her  head  drooped.  Her  mouth  moved. 
She  trembled.  It  was  more  a  trembling  than  a  move- 
ment which  tried  to  release  her  hand.  He  hung  his 
head.  He  would  not  look  at  her  distress.  He  gently 
pressed  her  hand  and  released  it.  Turning  from  her, 
he  looked  over  the  handrail  into  the  water.  She  stood 
staring,  with  unseeing  eyes,  at  a  bunch  of  rushes.  Frost, 
or  the  hoof  of  a  beast,  had  made  a  fall  of  the  bank  a 
little  way  down  stream.  An  erect  red  clod  stood  up  in 
the  stream  like  a  little  island,  two  feet  from  the  bank. 
It  bore  a  bunch  of  rushes,  like  erect,  spiny  hair.  She 


224         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

stared  at  the  rushes;  but  her  mind  took  in  no  picture 
of  them.  Her  mouth  trembled.  She  was  trying  to 
bite  her  lip.  Her  hands  tried  aimlessly  to  impress  a 
pebble  upon  each  other.  Incredible  thoughts  went 
across  her  brain  in  fire. 

"  Rhoda, "  he  said,  turning  to  her.  His  voice  was 
husky.  His  throat  was  so  dry  that  the  words  stuck  in 
it  like  chips.  "  Rhoda."  She  tried  to  look  at  and  to 
answer  him.  She  put  out  a  hand  to  the  rail.  She  was 
aware  of  him  standing  there.  She  was  dimly  aware  of 
a  noise  of  water.  The  sky,  which  had  been  so  blue  in 
that  long-ago  century  two  minutes  before,  was  a  clang- 
ing glare  of  flame.  He  touched  her  hand  very  very 
gently,  covering  it,  almost  without  contact,  with  his. 

"  We  must  go/'  he  said. 

"  Yes/'  she  said,  vaguely.  She  let  him  lead  her  off 
the  bridge.  He  did  not  speak  to  her  for  some  minutes. 
He  walked  half  a  pace  ahead  of  her.  She  walked  as 
though  she  were  his  dog  "  come  to  heel/'  He  walked 
fast.  Presently  he  stopped.  They  were  near  a  second 
little  plank  bridge.  On  the  other  side  of  the  brook,  on 
the  gentle  lower  slope  of  Ponton,  was  the  grey  of  the* 
quarry  face  of  the  place  of  Blossom.  The  tassels  of 
the  catkins  were  trembling  there.  During  the  day,  a 
wild  cherry  had  broken  into  blossom  just  above  it. 

"  Rhoda,"  he  said,  "  would  you  like  to  wait  for  me  in 
the  quarry,  while  I  fetch  the  tea-things." 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I'll  come  in  with  you.  I  must 
see  Jane." 

"  Will  you  wear  your  coat?  "  She  shook  her  head. 
She  would  keep  as  she  was  until  the  evening.  She  would 
be  as  she  had  been  during  that  first  instant  of  realisa- 
tion. He  touched  her  sleeve  shyly  as  they  crossed  the 
bridge.  A  smile  shivered  on  her  lips.  They  glanced  into 
the  quarry  to  make  sure  that  there  would  be  a  good 
place  for  a  fire. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         225 

"  Sticks  or  methylated?  "  he  asked. 

"  Sticks/'  she  said.     "  They  give  a  nicer  taste. 

"  You'll  have  to  wrap  up  well,  Rhoda?  " 

"  I  shan't  feel  cold,"  she  said.  "  I'm  a  woman.  I'm 
not  a  delicate  little  thing,  like  you  great  strong  men. 
"  Now,  tea." 

It  was  past  five  o'clock  when  they  brought  the  tea- 
things  to  the  quarry.  They  had  then  to  search  for 
sticks  in  the  wood.  Rhoda  laid  and  lit  the  fire.  She 
had  the  knack  of  sheltering  the  match-flame  with  her 
hands. 

"Who  taught  you  that,  Rhoda?"  he  asked.  He 
was  pricked  by  a  sudden  fear,  half  jealousy,  of  an  un- 
known man  in  her  life. 

"  Taught  me?  It's  a  natural  gift,"  she  said.  "  It's 
like  poetry  or  ping-pong  and  other  natural  gifts.  You 
can't  teach  a  woman  to  hold  a  match.  Bless  the  man." 
He  made  up  a  snug  corner  for  her  away  from  the  wind. 
The  wind  was  dropping  with  the  sun.  The  light  was 
deepening.  It  was  like  a  rich  old  man.  The  shadows 
were  stretching  towards  the  brook.  The  cock-pheasants 
had  begun  to  call  outside  the  covert.  The  cooing  of  the 
wood-pigeons  took  a  meaning  from  the  evening.  It  was 
no  longer  a  part  of  the  talk  of  the  wood.  It  was  personal 
with  message  from  the  fire  in  things.  It  knocked,  and 
came  into  the  heart.  Lionel,  touching  Rhoda's  arm, 
caused  her  to  look  across  the  slope  to  the  field  beyond 
the  brook.  The  ears  of  a  black  rabbit  were  cocked  there, 
above  the  grass.  The  alertness  of  the  creature  made  it 
elvish.  Lionel  smiled.  "  I  wonder  if  that's  melanism," 
he  said,  "  or  some  boy's  joke.  I  wish  life  sharpened  our 
wits  to  that  point.  It  doesn't.  It  only  frets  our 
nerves."  He  took  Rhoda's  arm.  "  Now  you're  to  sit 
in  the  corner,  there,"  he  said.  "And  have  this  rug 
about  you."  He  tucked  it  about  her.  She  liked  the 
caring.  He  waited  on  her  tenderly.  She  ate  and 

p 


226         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

drank  in  her  heart.  His  face  looking  down  at  hers, 
with  that  strange  new  look,  which  brought  the  blood 
to  her  cheek,  was  life  from  the  source  to  her.  Invisible 
fire  passed  from  one  to  the  other.  Rhoda' s  bent,  blush- 
ing face,  the  beauty  of  her  outstretched  arm,  her  firm 
white  fingers,  the  charm  of  her  pose,  so  natural,  yet 
with  so  much  thought  in  it,  so  much  sensitiveness  to 
beauty,  were  eyebright  upon  all  the  blindness  in  him. 
She  shut  her  eyes,  trembling.  She  felt  his  hand  at  hers, 
drawing  her  cup  from  her.  There  came  the  chink  of  a 
cup  sliding  upon  its  saucer  as  he  put  it  down.  Half 
opening  her  eyes,  she  saw  him  through  a  film  of  lashes, 
kneeling  at  her  feet.  He  had  her  hands  in  his.  She 
closed  her  eyes  at  the  warm  contact.  She  drooped 
away  from  him,  with  a  quivering  mouth. 

"  Rhoda.     Rhoda." 

She  struggled  to  speak,  but  her  heart  was  too  full. 
The  impulse  to  speech  translated  itself  into  a  shrinking 
pressure  of  her  hands.  She  felt  her  hands  drawn  against 
his  heart.  She  longed  to  hear  his  voice  again.  She 
longed  for  his  love  to  come  round  her,  to  the  extinction 
of  her  trembling  in  flame.  Drawing  one  hand  loose  she 
caressed  his  fingers  with  a  little  shy  frightened  touch. 
Stooping  he  kissed  her  fingers.  She  kissed  where  his 
lips  had  touched  her.  There  was  a  humility  in  the  act 
which  shamed. 

"  Oh,  Rhoda."  He  laid  her  hands  at  her  side,  and 
walked  a  few  paces  from  her.  He  stood  there,  biting 
his  lips,  staring  at  a  heaven  of  washed-out  blue,  almost 
colourless  now  from  the  light  of  the  sunset,  a  watery 
pale  light,  fast  deepening  to  glow. 

He  took  her  hands  again.  She  was  cold.  She  was 
shuddering.  He  lifted  her  gently.  She  crept  in  to  him 
like  a  dumb  thing,  her  eyes  fast  shut,  her  mouth  quiver- 
ing. He  was  touched.  He  realised  for  the  first  time 
how  little  life  had  taught  him  of  the  emotional  nature  of 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         227 

women.  He  held  her  gently  to  him.  She  breathed 
fast,  like  a  creature  out  of  breath.  Once  she  moved 
her  face  with  a  little  caressing  movement  against  his 
shoulder.  One  hand  held  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  He 
touched  the  hand  tenderly.  He  saw  the  shut  eyes 
quiver.  A  little  gleam  of  a  smile  came  upon  the  corner 
of  the  mouth. 

"  You're  cold,  dear/'  he  said.  He  said  it  with  a 
great  tenderness.  Afterwards  it  struck  him  as  so  un- 
like the  things  which  a  hero  says  in  books.  He  was 
trembling.  His  teeth  were  chattering.  He  touched 
her  cold  cheek. 

"  Rhoda,  dear.     You're  cold." 

"  I  am  cold/'  she  answered,  faintly.  "  But  I  don't 
mind.  I  don't  mind."  A  minute  or  two  passed.  She 
seemed  to  waken  out  of  a  dream.  She  put  him  from  her 
with  gentle  dignity.  She  stood,  taking  in  deep  breaths. 
He  watched  her  wide-eyed.  His  mouth  was  twitching. 
She  passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead,  touching  her 
hair.  Her  eyes  were  strange.  Her  face  was  exalted. 
She  glanced  at  him.  She  could  not  face  the  look  in  his 
eyes.  Her  eyes  fell.  When  she  raised  them  it  was  to 
stare  out  across  the  brook  to  the  valley  beyond.  Her 
face  was  very  wan;  the  lips  were  white.  He  came 
nearer,  holding  her  jacket.  He  helped  her  to  put  it  on. 
His  hands  rested  lightly  on  her  shoulders.  Flame  ran 
through  her,  with  a  stab  of  delight,  that  this  strong 
man  was  taking  possession.  She  shut  her  eyes  for  an 
instant. 

"  Life  is  kind,  Rhoda." 

"  Kind,"  she  repeated.  "  Kind."  His  arm  linked 
her  arm  in  his.  She  pressed  it  to  her  side  with  a  little 
swift  shudder. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me,  Rhoda?  "  He  was  draw- 
ing her  out  of  the  quarry  into  a  glowing  world.  She 
nodded,  swallowing.  They  passed  out  of  the  Place  of 


228          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Blossom.  Some  rabbits  which  had  crept  from  the 
wood  hedge  to  nibble  the  grass  near  shelter  turned,  hesi- 
tated, and  scampered  back.  A  blackbird  broke  covert 
with  a  cry.  Rhoda  stopped,  with  a  wan  smile  at  all 
that  scampering  life. 

Two  fields  further  on  they  entered  the  wood  through 
a  gap  made  for  the  beaters  during  the  autumn.  The 
wood  anemones  were  out  of  the  sun,  now.  They  were 
closed.  The  wood  was  out  of  the  sun,  save  for  a  few 
bright  branches  high  aloft.  The  lovers  wandered  on, 
up  a  path,  their  faces  upturned.  They  looked  above 
them  at  the  glow  in  heaven.  As  happens  at  rare  times 
in  life  the  beauty  of  the  day  became  a  part  of  the  beauty 
in  them.  All  things  were  notes  in  the  music.  This 
sudden  realisation  made  all  things  real.  This  under- 
standing was  not  limited  to  the  person  whose  touch  was 
so  near  and  so  warm,  in  the  physical  presence  just  at 
hand.  It  roved  over  nature,  crushing  her  essence  on 
joy's  palate.  It  spread,  it  grasped,  it  assimilated.  The 
lovers  were  too  full  of  joy  for  speech.  They  understood. 
They  knew.  To  Rhoda,  every  branch,  every  bird,  every 
closed  trembling  flower,  was  the  child  of  her  moment  to 
be  taken  in,  and  kissed  and  kept,  intimately  hers  for 
ever.  To  Lionel  there  came  a  sense  of  intellectual 
power.  He  had  never  felt  like  that  before.  He 
wondered  if  it  would  last.  He  understood  at  last  (he 
thought)  man's  place  in  nature.  All  this  wood  was  his 
servant,  all  the  world  was  his  slave. 

"  I  want  to  look  down  on  the  world/1  he  said. 

"  Yes/'  she  said.     "  Yes.     Look  down  on  it/' 

"  From  the  top/' 

"  From  the  top  of  all." 

"  In  spite  of  the  Britons  ?  " 

"  Dear.    This  will  consecrate." 

"  It  shall  be  there,  dear?" 

"  Yes.    There,"  she  said.    They  moved  on,  up  the  hill. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         229 

As  they  passed  from  the  wood  to  the  patch  of  grass, 
the  sun  was  setting.  Lover's  time  is  swift  time.  He 
runs,  he  flies.  All  those  golden  sands  had  run.  It  was 
nearly  seven.  Down  in  the  valley  a  trail  of  white  smoke 
drew  itself  noiselessly  across  the  landscape.  "  Your 
train,"  said  Rhoda,  smiling. 

"  Yes.  My  train/'  he  answered.  He  stood  to  watch 
it  go,  thinking  of  the  joy  life  held  for  him.  He  felt  the 
little  shuddering  pressure  of  the  arm  in  his.  He  looked 
at  the  Sacred  Grove.  The  glow  of  light  gave  the  trees 
the  intensity  and  precision  of  bronze.  They  were  still, 
now  that  the  wind  had  fallen.  They  glowed  out,  over 
the  hill,  as  though  they  had  been  cast  in  metal,  in  the 
mould  of  some  sharp  artificer. 

"  There  is  nobody  there,"  he  said,  glancing  down  at 
her.  He  wanted  her  not  to  feel  afraid.  He  wanted  her 
trust.  They  would  be  alone  on  the  hill-top,  utterly 
alone.  He  wanted  her  to  realise  this.  They  were 
entering  a  new  world,  side  by  side,  heart  to  heart.  He 
would  be  very  gentle  with  her.  They  would  be  hand  in 
hand  there. 

"  Rhoda,  dear.  You  know  what  it  means?  On  the 
hill-top  there  ?  "  She  hid  her  face.  She  answered,  in  a 
low  voice,  turned  away  from  him. 

"  Yes.     I  know,  Lionel." 

"  And  you  will   trust  ?     You  will  know  that  .  . 
that  I  care,  Rhoda." 

"  Come,"  she  said.  His  feet  quickened  from  her 
impulse. 

The  grove  was  silent,  but  for  the  rabbits.  They 
scattered  off,  hearing  the  coming  feet.  The  pair  reached 
the  edge  of  the  ditch,  just  as  the  last  rabbit,  unused  to 
men,  loped  slowly  to  ground  below  them.  They  stood  by 
a  little  hawthorn  bush,  which  was  green  with  the  first 
brightness  of  young  leaf.  Rhoda  plucked  two  shoots. 
She  gave  one  of  them  to  Lionel,  and  ate  the  other. 


230         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  Our  sacrament/'  she  whispered,  shyly  smiling  at 
him. 

"  Dear  Rhoda."  They  stood  hand  in  hand,  eating 
that  body  and  blood  of  April. 

"  And  now  let  us  enter  the  grove,"  he  said. 

"  From  this  side,"  she  answered.  They  were  to  the 
east. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"  Facing  the  sun,"  she  said, 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  Let  us  go  down  together."  She  turned  to  him, 
looking  him  full  in  the  face,  with  her  frank  grey  eyes. 
Then  very  swiftly,  she  bent  and  kissed  his  hand  with 
that  humbleness  which  had  shamed  him  so  before.  His 
arm  was  round  her.  She  leaned  against  it  with  that 
ecstasy  in  finding  a  strong  support  which  none  but  the 
girl  who  has  been  lonely  knows  to  the  full.  With  a 
little  frightened  sob,  she  clung  to  his  arm,  pressing  to 
him.  Then  raising  her  face  she  spoke  again. 

"  Down  together."  She  clung  to  him,  trusting  to 
him  (her  eyes  closed)  as  he  helped  her  down  the  slope 
into  the  ditch. 

It  was  darker  in  the  ditch.  They  were  shut  away 
from  the  world  there.  They  were  out  of  sight  of  life. 
From  very  far  away  a  sheep  called.  There  was  a  caw- 
ing of  rooks  somewhere,  as  though  the  wood  clapped 
hands  at  the  sun's  exit.  Otherwise  it  was  still  there, 
lonely.  They  were  in  one  of  the  world's  secret  places, 
They  were  alone.  The  gloom  of  the  trench  gave  a  chill 
to  their  mood.  The  cold  of  the  red  earth,  littered  with 
twigs,  in  the  lightlessness  of  a  spring  sunset,  from  which 
the  warmth  had  gone,  made  them  feel  that  this,  too,  was 
life,  as  well  as  the  ecstatic  mood  of  the  climbing  of  the 
hill.  They  were  alone  together,  two  human  souls, 
given  to  each  other  now,  pledged  to  have  interests  in 
common,  a  body  in  common,  a  life  in  common,  body 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         231 

and  body's  guest.  They  would  have  this  earth  against 
them  sometimes,  the  earth,  the  broken  boughs  and  the 
lightlessness.  And  however  much  they  loved  each 
other,  however  much  joy  they  brought  to  life  from  their 
communion,  that  would  await  them  in  the  end.  Cold 
earth,  and  littered  twigs  and  lightlessness.  A  little 
wood-mouse  came  out  of  his  hole  with  a  weak  squeaking. 
He  moved  so  quickly  that  he  was  a  visible  motion  in  the 
leaves,  not  a  distinct  object.  His  faint  squeak  was  one 
of  Nature's  thinnest  ditties,  but  it  brought  out  other 
flittering  mice.  The  sight  of  him  made  Lionel's  pres- 
sure on  her  arm  reassuring.  The  smile  came  upon  her 
face  again.  Lionel's  arm  drew  her  more  closely  to  him. 
Her  breathing  shook  her. 

"  Shall  we  go  up  the  mound?  "  he  asked. 

"  Wait  one  instant,"  she  breathed.  Then—"  Lionel, 
Lionel,  I  am  ready."  He  helped  her  up  the  mound  to 
the  top.  She  stayed  there,  holding  to  a  tree,  facing  to 
the  sun  with  shut  eyes.  The  sun  was  dipping  now. 
His  red  disc  was  cut  across  by  threads  of  intense  gold 
cloud.  The  west  was  orange,  with  that  promise  of 
reddening  which  foretells  fine  weather.  Under  the 
west,  the  landscape's  watery  grey  was  luminous.  The 
hills  on  the  horizon  were  dim  butterfly  blue.  The 
three  pines  in  Ponton  wood  bronzed  and  sombred. 
They  were  captains  there,  Roman  captains,  bloody  from 
conquest.  A  few  faint  clouds  rose  above  the  colour  of 
the  lowest  heaven  like  infinitely  distant  peaks.  Water 
in  the  valley  gleamed  steel.  Smoke  rose  above  the 
village.  Woods  were  dim.  The  world  was  unreal  with 
haze.  Only  in  this  high  place  was  the  glowun  conquered. 
It  flushed  the  trees  still.  They  reddened  under  it. 
Ponton  was  an  ember  glowing,  though  on  Ponton's 
eastern  side  it  was  already  twilight.  Shadow  was 
there,  dullness,  emptiness  of  light,  the  sense  that  April 
after  sunset  is  early  March. 


232         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Rhoda's  hand  sought  his.  "  Come,"  she  said.  They 
set  out  together  to  the  western  point.  Afterwards  they 
had  no  memory  of  those  last  few  paces.  Their  minds 
were  in  the  past  and  in  the  future :  the  present  was  not. 
They  stood  together  there  an  instant,  on  the  flattened 
mound  top,  watching  the  sun  sink.  The  last  of  the 
glow  was  intense  upon  their  faces. 

"  Rhoda,  darling." 

"  Lionel."  She  raised  her  face.  She  looked  at  him 
out  of  half-shut  eyes.  It  seemed  to  him  that  her  face 
was  the  face  of  one  made  suddenly  old  with  pain.  He 
caught  her  hands.  He  drew  them  to  his  heart  for  a 
moment.  Then,  as  she  swayed  towards  him  with  blind 
eyes,  his  hands  took  her  shoulders. 

"  Rhoda.     Beloved.     Beautiful  Rhoda." 

She  drooped  to  him.  Her  hands  laid  themselves 
limply  to  rest  upon  his  sleeves.  Half  opening  her  eyes 
as  she  yearned  against  him  she  murmured  something. 
Her  touch  upon  his  arm,  her  last  conscious  effort,  forced 
him  to  turn  a  little. 

"  In  the  sun,"  she  murmured.  "  In  the  sun."  He 
saw  her  mouth  half  smile,  as  he  obeyed.  He  saw  her 
lashes  half  lift  again  in  a  second  of  desire  to  see  his  face 
in  that  instant.  They  quivered  down.  She  could  not. 
She  was  blind,  she  was  dumb,  she  was  his.  She  was  a 
white,  sighing  thing  who  clung  to  him,  yearned  to 
him,  mouth  on  mouth.  Something  in  the  whiteness  of 
the  moment  made  him  murmur  "  Sacred.  Sacred. 
Sacred."  She  needed  that  word.  A  little  shy  hand 
trembled  among  his  hair,  pressing  him  to  her.  Earth 
died  at  that.  His  eyes  closed.  The  light  grew  in- 
tenser.  They  clasped  the  universe.  All  joy,  all  music, 
all  colour,  circled  and  flowed  in  them.  The  flower  of 
life  opened  to  them,  spilling  perfume,  spilling  light. 
They  entered  the  heart  of  the  rose,  they  took  the 
vows  of  the  rose,  they  became  the  rose.  The  last  of 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         233 

the  glow  made  them  immortals,  ruddy  with  a  burning 
blood. 

The  great  copper  moon,  rising  from  the  dimness 
beyond  the  valley,  beheld  them  there  still,  in  Ponton 
Grove,  consecrating  a  little  earth  with  something  from 
beyond  the  stars.  Shyly  a  star  or  two  crept  to  silver 
upon  the  sky.  An  owl  floated  down  the  valley  like 
a  great  moth.  Bats  were  aloft.  Their  cluttering 
sounded.  A  late  blackbird  carolled. 

"  Lionel." 

"  Yes,  beloved." 

"  You  care,  Lionel  ?  " 

"  Rhoda,  beloved  Rhoda.     I  love  you,  Rhoda." 

"  Isn't  it  wonderful,  Lionel?  " 

"Yes,  beloved.  Oh,  Rhoda.  Rhoda.  Rhoda,  you 
are  beautiful,  Rhoda." 

"  Ah." 

"  Kiss  me,  Rhoda." 

"  My  Lionel." 

"You  love  me,  Rhoda?" 

No  answer  this  time,  only  that  sudden  dog-like 
humbleness  as  she  caught  his  hand  to  her  lips. 

The  moon  climbed  up  into  heaven.  The  copper  of 
her  burning  smouldered  in  the  blueness,  pearling  as  she 
rose.  Presently  she  was  white  in  heaven,  silvering  the 
world,  making  all  wan.  Down  in  the  valley  two  lovers 
were  lingering  home.  Behind  them,  clear  in  the  still- 
ness, the  voice  of  the  brook  called,  not  like  a  bird  now, 
but  like  a  spirit,  a  complaining  spirit,  a  spirit  lonely  in 
the  valley,  lonely,  no  one  talking.  The  water  crooned 
there,  gurgled,  cried.  No  one  came  to  it,  no  one  came 
to  it.  It  was  lonely,  lonely.  The  hurrying  water 
gurgling,  going,  quickly  going.  And  anon  a  promise, 
anon  a  mourning. 

All  the  valley  was  full  of  the  voice  of  the  water.    The 


234         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

lovers  lingered  to  hear.  They  lingered  on  the  bridge. 
They  clung  together  on  the  bridge.  "  Here,  where  it 
all  began,  beloved.  Oh,  my  beloved,  my  beloved/' 

A  water-rat  (or  was  it  an  otter?)  slipped  into  the 
brook  with  a  little  splash.  They  saw  a  head  at  the 
point  of  a  V  of  ripples.  It  passed  on,  on,  down  stream, 
setting  little  waves  of  silver  to  wash  the  banks.  The 
trout  in  the  eddy  flogged  the  water  a  wallop.  In  the 
grass  below  the  wood  the  rabbits  gathered.  There  were 
scurryings,  beatings  on  the  ground,  a  buck's  squeal. 

"  Lionel." 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"Dear?" 

"  Beloved." 

"Isn't  it  beautiful?" 

"  Beautiful." 

"  The  place  of  blossom  now,  dear.  And  then  good- 
night." 

"There  will  be  no  real  parting,  Rhoda.  Never 
again." 

"  No,"  she  answered.     "  Never  again." 

In  the  place  of  blossom  they  stumbled  on  a  tea-cup. 
They  laughed  together.  Lionel  knelt  upon  the  ground 
and  kissed  her  feet. 

"  Oh,  Lionel,  Lionel." 

Groping  with  one  hand  he  plucked  white  violets.  He 
stood,  shaking,  trembling.  She  felt  the  fire  in  him. 

"  Beloved." 

"  Yes,  Lionel." 

"The  symbol.  White  violets.  The  symbol  of  to- 
day." 

"  Yes,  Lionel." 

"  Let  them  be  hi  our  kiss,  beloved."  Their  mouths 
crushed  the  violets.  They  were  earth's  white  fire. 

"  Lionel.  Lionel,"  she  murmured.  The  moth-like 
owl,  floating  down  the  hedge  for  mice,  wavered  as  he 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         235 

saw  them.     An  owl  in  the  pine-tree,  crying  a  strange 
cry,  broke  out  a-hooting. 

Down  the  brook,  in  the  wide,  far  reach,  where  it 
becomes  a  river,  the  water  was  silver,  silver,  a  mile  of 
silver.  It  was  flowing  on  under  the  moon,  under  the 
stars,  going  on  to  the  sea.  Fish  rose,  fish  rushed,  fish 
leapt.  It  flowed  on,  white,  white,  going  on  to  the  sea. 
Plain  in  mid-stream,  its  neck  pointing  as  it  circled,  a 
bottle  floated,  "like  some  grave,  mighty  thought 
threading  a  dream." 


BOOK    II 


CHAPTER  I 

LIONEL  disbelieved  in  the  Church.  He  felt  that  she 
needs  re-organising,  re-fitting,  almost  re-creating,  if  she 
be  to  help  the  soul  of  man  to  life,  through  these  difficult 
centuries  of  mental  triumph.  But  since  she  has  the 
law  on  her  side,  a  kind  of  conformity  is  necessary. 
Marriage  in  a  church  has  a  certainty  about  it.  Marriage 
before  a  registrar  unfits  one  for  provincial  life.  A 
registrar  is  as  good  a  marrier  as  a  parson,  yet  to  country 
nostrils  he  leaves  a  whiff  of  brimstone  about  the  lady's 
skirts.  It  is  a  matter  of  tradition,  perhaps;  of  "  desert 
being  a  beggar  born."  A  yeomanry  captain  is  as  much 
a  captain  as  the  other:  yet  there  is  a  glamour  about 
the  Household  Regiments.  So  Lionel  consented  to  be 
married  in  a  church,  by  a  clergyman.  He  would  not  go 
further  than  that.  He  refused  to  submit  to  any  of  the 
costly  mummery  by  which  a  rite  both  beautiful  and 
simple  is  made  vulgar  among  us.  If  he  were  to  be 
married  by  the  Church,  it  should  be  in  the  living  Church, 
not  by  the  present,  dead,  expensive  substitute  for 
Christian  action.  He  chose  a  mean,  grey-stone  church 
in  Hoxton.  He  felt  that  it  represented  all  that  was 
living  in  our  Christianity.  "  Nothing  but  the  love  of 
God,"  he  thought,  "  could  force  people  into  a  building 
so  hideous." 

It  was  a  very  "low"  church.  The  choir  (he  went 
there  one  Sunday)  sang  to  the  harmonium.  A  lady 
played,  not  very  well.  The  service  dragged.  They  had 
both  Litany  and  Communion  service.  The  clergyman 
looked  over-worked.  He  did  not  intone. 

237 


238         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Lionel  was  much  depressed  by  the  service.  He  was 
depressed  by  the  starved  look  of  the  congregation. 
They  were  white-faced.  They  were  in  want  of  air,  in 
want  of  blood.  They  looked  as  though  life  had  poisoned 
them.  A  few  weary-looking  boys  twitched  and  fidgeted, 
bored  to  the  bone.  The  matrons  tinkled  with  beads. 
But  there  was  an  earnestness  in  the  men  and  in  the 
clergyman  that  impressed  him  deeply.  The  horrible 
little  windows  were  all  shut.  A  coloured  motto  over 
the  chancel  arch  declared  that  "  This  is  the  House  of 
God/'  Lionel  thought  of  Agave  gone  mad  on  the  hills. 
He  looked  from  death's  head  to  death's  head  in  the 
congregation,  thinking  that  it  had  taken  twenty  cen- 
turies of  Christianity  to  bring  us  so  far  upon  the  road. 

He  was  married  there  at  the  end  of  June.  He  was 
married  in  his  "  ordinary "  clothes.  So  was  Rhoda. 
He  swore  that  he  would  not  marry  otherwise.  His 
friends,  the  Cartwrights,  with  whom  he  had  stayed  in 
India,  during  the  famine  relief  time,  supported  him. 
Dora  came  with  Rhoda.  Rhoda's  father  drove  up,  red 
and  swearing,  in  a  cab,  as  they  were  leaving  the  church 
after  the  wedding.  He  explained  that  the  blasted  cab- 
man had  taken  him  to  the  wrong  church.  He  caught  at 
Lionel's  hand  and  said  something  about  Gobbless  you. 
Lionel  was  hot  and  petulant.  They  were  all  in  the  road. 
He  wanted  to  get  away.  Half  a  dozen  people  had 
gathered,  to  stare.  Their  chins  dropped,  like  idiots' 
chins.  There  was  no  more  vitality  in  the  stare  than 
would  stock  a  figure  in  a  poster.  "  Come  along,  Rhoda," 
he  said,  "  let's  get  out  of  this."  He  bundled  her  into 
her  father's  cab.  "  Get  out  of  this,  quick,"  he  called 
to  the  cabman.  "  Paddington."  He  settled  down 
beside  his  wife  as  the  cabman  whipped  up.  "  Good 
Lord,"  he  said,  "  people  make  this  business  of  marriage 
as  beastly  as  divorce.  Good  Lord.  Good  Lord,  Rhoda. 
Your  father  ought  to  be  shot."  Something  told  him 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         239 

that  this  was  not  the  way  to  talk  to  a  newly-married 
wife.  He  shut-to  the  doors.  Her  hand  lay  nerveless 
on  her  lap.  He  caught  it.  It  closed  on  his  hand  with 
a  timid  pressure.  "  Well,  Rhoda,"  he  said.  He  smiled 
grimly.  She  did  not  answer  him.  She  was  too  full  of 
emotion.  She  smiled  faintly.  Rousing  herself,  she 
realised  how  they  had  stolen  her  father's  cab.  The 
humour  of  it  was  mingled  with  a  natural  prudence. 

"  You'll  have  to  pay  father's  fare/'  she  said,  "  as  well 
as  ours." 

"  Lord,  yes,"  he  answered.  "  Half  a  crown.  Brute." 
He  reflected  on  it.  "  But  he's  in  tight  boots,"  he  went 
on,  "  and  it's  a  mile  to  a  cab-rank." 

"  I  was  wondering,"  she  said,  "  what  he  was  like  when 
he  married  my  mother." 

"Like?"  Lionel  asked.  "He  was  like  an  occasion 
for  restoratives.  Most  bridegrooms  are,  it  seems." 

Lionel's  teeth  gritted  at  the  thought  of  the  obsolete 
indignities  of  marriage,  of  wedding  breakfasts  and  the 
like.  "  Here,"  he  called,  "  where  on  earth's  this  fellow 
taking  us."  He  thrust  up  the  little  hatch  in  the  roof  of 
the  cab.  "  Round  to  the  left,"  he  shouted.  "  Round 
to  the  left.  And  then  round  to  the  right."  The  cab- 
man said  something  half  aloud  about  the  blastedness 
of  the  completely  blasted.  The  horse  came  round, 
with  every  reason  for  agreement. 

"  Look  here,  dear  wife,"  said  Lionel,  suddenly  tender. 
His  nerves  were  jumping  him  from  mood  to  mood. 
"  Look  here,  dear."  He  was  silent  again.  The  tender- 
ness was  not  spoken. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder 
and  looked  at  her.  Fearing  that  she  would  not  like 
this,  in  the  sight  of  the  world,  he  withdrew  his  hand. 
He  was  worried.  She,  was  shut  up  in  a  carefully  built 
room  to  which  he  had  no  key.  He  saw  her  as  it  were 
looking  out  of  the  window  of  that  room.  "  We  are  man 


240         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

and  wile/'  he  said  to  himself,  "  and  we  have  been 
civilised  into  different  genera.  What  in  the  world  is 
she  thinking  of?  What  is  going  on  inside  her  head?  " 
The  cab  Stopped  outside  the  station.  They  got  out, 
and  entered  the  hotel. 

Rhoda  sat  down  in  the  foyer,  while  Lionel  wrote  in 
the  register.  She  was  suddenly  conscious  that  she  was 
entering  life  with  a  creature  of  whom  she  knew  nothing. 
Lionel  was  as  strange  to  her  as  the  hotel  servant  at  the 
desk.  What  were  men  like?  What  was  Lionel  like? 
Lionel  put  down  the  pen.  He  came  to  her.  He  sat  at 
her  side.  His  eyes  were  very  kind,  but  his  face  had  the 
troubled  look  which  came  with  bodily  weariness  and 
mental  strain.  "  Well,  dear  wife,"  he  said.  His  voice 
was  very  tender.  No  one  was  near  them.  The  men 
at  the  desk  were  sorting  a  stack  of  letters  which  a  post- 
man had  handed  to  them  a  moment  before.  The 
postman  was  now  passing  through  the  swing  doors  into 
the  street.  Rhoda  saw  that  he  had  a  fair  moustache. 

"  Rhoda,"  Lionel  said,  "  you're  wondering  what  men 
are  like.  They're  very  like  women.  Only  they  pass 
their  lives  in  a  playing  field,  while  you  pass  yours  in  a 
boudoir,  looking  on.  You  mustn't  be  afraid  of  me. 
You're  just  as  big  a  mystery  to  me,  as  I  am  to  you.  And 
I'm  just  as  much  afraid  of  you,  as  you  are  of  me.  Only 
in  a  different  way,  perhaps.  You'll  have  to  learn  about 
the  playing  field,  and  I'll  have  to  learn  about  the  boudoir. 
We  have  to  teach  each  other.  Only  you'll  remember, 
dear,  that  I'm  only  a  human  being  like  yourself.  We're 
both  that,  first  of  all.  And  you'd  like  to  go  to  your 
room  to  lie  down.  I'll  send  a  maid  up  to  you,  with  some 
tea." 

She  thanked  him  with  a  look.  He  walked  over  to  the 
desk  for  the  key  of  her  room.  A  small  boy  appeared 
with  the  key.  Rhoda  followed  the  boy.  She  gave 
Lionel  a  wan  smile  as  she  stepped  into  the  lift.  Lionel 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          241 

watched  her  go.  He  gave  orders  for  tea  and  chocolates 
to  be  taken  to  her  room.  Then  he  walked  out  into 
the  Park,  along  the  Serpentine  to  the  bridge,  and  then 
along  the  road  as  far  as  the  Albert  Memorial.  He 
turned,  near  the  gate,  and  walked  back  over  the  bridge, 
towards  Oxford  Street.  Near  the  guard-house  he  found 
himself  thinking  that  all  experience  is  valuable,  that 
perhaps  even  an  unpleasant  thing  (like  a  wedding)  has 
its  value  to  the  soul.  He  thought  of  children.  Unlike 
most  men,  he  desired  children.  He  thought  of  living 
in  a  pleasant  old  English  farmhouse  near  a  brook.  It 
was  Rhoda's  farmhouse.  He  thought  of  himself  wander- 
ing along  the  brook  with  his  boys,  sailing  toy  boats  under 
the  bridge  where  he  and  Rhoda  had  thrown  stones  at  the 
bottle.  His  boys.  They  would  have  Rhoda's  eyes. 
And  perhaps  there  would  be  a  girl,  a  little  like  himself. 
He  sat  down  on  one  of  the  benches  on  the  walk.  There 
would  be  children.  The  physical  side  of  marriage  was 
ugly,  he  thought,  without  children.  And  more  im- 
portant than  children  was  cleanness.  In  his  thought 
he  was  contemptuous  of  women.  "  They  cannot  think. 
They've  not  been  trained  to  think.  And  they've  con- 
trived to  keep  men's  thoughts  upon  themselves.  And 
they've  played  the  devil,  and  taught  men  to  play  the 
devil."  He  watched  the  sparrows  in  the  grass  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road.  There  were  a  dozen  there.  They 
had  food  there,  seeds  or  insects.  They  were  pecking. 
Hopping  in  little  hops  and  pecking. 

"  Man  has  been  doing  that,"  he  muttered.  "  Doing 
it  for  fifty  centuries.  Hopping  in  little  hops  and  peck- 
ing. We've  been  waiting  for  an  act  of  will  to  put  the 
sparrow  in  us  in  its  place." 

He  remembered  Rhoda's  words.  "  I  was  wondering 
what  he  was  like  when  he  married  my  mother."  He 
blessed  her  for  the  thought.  The  red-faced,  drunken 
man  had  once  been  a  woman's  hero,  standing  strong 

Q 


242         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

and  fine  beside  her,  in  a  church  full  of  friends.  "  Men 
ought  not  to  forget  that,"  he  thought.  "  The  woman 
doesn't."  He  reflected  that  he  ought  to  keep  his 
memories  of  the  day  very  perfect.  It  was  a  strange 
thing,  this  married  life.  It  went  on,  sometimes,  for 
sixty  years.  He  knew  of  an  old,  old  couple  in  Ireland. 
He  had  seen  them  when  he  was  a  child.  The  Henrysons 
of  Castle  Henry.  An  old,  old  man,  an  old,  old  woman, 
sitting  in  a  sunny  room,  on  the  anniversary  of  their 
wedding  day.  They  had  been  married  for  sixty  years, 
twice  as  long  as  he  had  lived.  They  kept  the  day  still. 
They  had  married  in  the  Regency.  Who  had  been  at 
the  wedding?  What  had  they  said  to  each  other  as 
they  drove  off  into  life  sixty  golden  years  back  ?  What 
did  they  say  to  each  other,  that  night  sixty  years  after, 
when  the  guests  had  gone  and  they  were  in  the  dark  to- 
gether ?  They  talked  of  their  wedding  day.  "  Why,  it 
is  all  we  get  in  life,"  he  cried.  "  This  is  my  great  day. 
Sixty  years  hence  we  shall  be  looking  back  on  it  together. 
Our  grandchildren  will  call  us  blessed.  God  grant  us  a 
good  pilgrimage." 

He  prayed  that  he  might  be  like  old  Henryson. 
Marriage  was  a  very  grand  thing  when  it  was  so  perfect 
as  that.  Henryson  had  made  modern  life  bear  fruit. 
He  had  tasted  and  taken  life's  abundance.  He  had 
been  wealthy  in  life.  He  had  come  to  life  as  a  reaper 
comes  to  a  cornfield.  Life's  abundance.  People  talked 
of  all  manner  of  new  joys.  The  Bible  is  a  better  guide. 
They  are  wise  in  the  East,  here  we  are  experimental. 

He  thought  of  the  children  who  might  be  born  to  him. 
"  My  mind  must  be  about  her  through  it  all,"  he  thought. 
He  hated  the  modern  fear  of  life.  "  It's  better  that 
man  should  be  born.  There's  no  life  so  foul  that  it  has 
not  its  minute.  It's  better  that  people  should  have 
children.  Life  is  incomplete  without  them.  Some 
women  do  without.  They  have  that  other  idea  of  the 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          243 

sanctity  of  their  bodies.  They  make  the  world  their 
child." 

A  cab  was  coming  down  the  road  towards  him.  A 
woman  was  in  the  cab.  He  saw  that  she  was  Mrs. 
Drummond.  "  She  has  made  the  world  her  child,"  he 
thought.  Her  face  looked  very  sweet  behind  her  veil. 
She  was  gazing  gravely,  straight  ahead  of  her,  thinking 
gentle  thoughts.  He  had  seen  her  face  eager  and  sad, 
but  never  peaceful,  before.  He  wondered  what  long- 
gone  happiness  had  given  her  peace.  "  I've  never  got 
to  Coin  St.  Michael,"  he  thought  sadly.  "  We  never 
had  that  talk  after  all." 

He  rose  to  salute  her,  as  the  cab  went  by ;  but  she  did 
not  see  him.  He  saw  the  rake  of  her  hat,  the  veil  making 
a  silveriness  over  her  face,  and  the  poise  of  her  slim, 
firm  shoulders.  Her  figure  seemed  to  sway  a  little  to 
the  movement  of  the  cab.  Then  she  was  gone. 

He  sat  down  again  to  his  thoughts.  Perhaps  they 
were  not  his  thoughts,  but  the  thoughts  of  many  long 
dead  ancestors  whose  high  emotions  had  left  their  mark 
on  the  race.  He  realised  now  that  Marriage  is  a  tre- 
mendous spiritual  adventure.  It  means  more  to  the 
world  than  the  other  big  things,  birth  and  death. 
Ancestral  memories  moved  him.  He  thought  of  all 
the  love  of  the  past  which  had  gone  to  give  him  life. 
What  was  his  mother  like  when  she  married  his  father  ? 
His  mother  had  stood  in  a  church,  even  as  he  had  stood. 
"  No,  she  had  faith,"  he  muttered.  He  felt  her  by  him 
on  the  bench,  the  long-dead,  beautiful  woman.  He 
wished  that  she  were  alive  to  be  by  him  in  the  flesh. 
The  marriage  of  a  child  is  one  of  life's  last  sacra- 
ments. She  should  have  been  spared  for  that.  "  Dead, 
beautiful  mother,  who  was  gentle  to  me  when  I  was 
little." 

She  had  moved  on  the  earth,  glad  of  the  sun,  living 
and  giving  life.  Life  went  on  still,  the  sun  shone,  the 


244         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

rain  fell,  the  earth  spun.  He  thrilled  with  the  thought 
that  the  game  of  life  goes  on  for  ever.  "  To-morrow 
will  come  through  me,"  he  said.  His  mother  must 
have  thought  so,  years  ago,  in  that  old  Irish  house  up 
the  glen,  within  sight  of  the  sea.  Some  day  he  must 
take  Rhoda  there.  His  old  uncle  lived  there.  Perhaps 
in  one  of  the  box  rooms  in  the  attics  he  would  find  a 
trunk  containing  all  her  wedding  garments;  for  she  had 
kept  them,  no  doubt.  The  old  white  satin,  the  orange- 
flowers,  the  wreck  of  what  had  been  roses.  She  had 
been  as  full  of  joy  and  trust  and  hope  as  Rhoda.  Now 
she  lay  in  the  earth,  poor  mother.  She  could  not  even 
lay  fresh  camphor  in  those  old  bridal  things,  to  keep 
her  supreme  day  from  the  moth. 

Mary  Drummond  had  been  married;  "  twice/'  Sir 
Patrick  said,  "  both  times  tragically."  Now  she  drove 
alone,  in  a  cab,  getting  peace  out  of  a  memory.  He 
felt  inclined  to  cry  out  like  the  thief  in  Chaucer.  What 
is  this  Marriage  ?  Many  of  the  best  people  never  tried 
it.  Scores  of  the  noblest  women  never  married.  Where 
would  they  get  men  good  enough  ?  Rhoda  had  married. 
Poor  little  Rhoda.  He  felt  very  tender  to  her.  He  was 
all  that  she  had  in  the  world;  she  was  all  that  he  had; 
they  were  two  little  lonely  souls  pledged  to  make  some- 
thing of  life  together.  The  world  seemed  very  big  and 
fierce,  suddenly.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt 
a  little  afraid.  "  The  world  can  be  very  cruel,"  he 
muttered.  He  did  not  mind  for  himself:  but  he  was 
no  longer  alone.  "  World,  you  can  hit  me  through 
her."  The  thought,  pursued  a  little  further,  told  him 
that  the  world  could  hit  her  through  him.  He  was 
weary.  Woman's  nerves  are  so  strange.  Was  there 
anything  in  his  nature  which  could  make  her  stiffen 
with  repulsion?  He  did  not  know  what  she  loved  in 
him,  nor  what  she  asked  of  him.  What  did  she  know 
of  him?  Yet  they  were  pledged  to  live  together  and 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          245 

keep  together  till  one  of  them  died,  it  might  be  sixty 
years  hence. 

He  must  be  tender  to  her.  He  walked  towards  the 
gate.  He  would  go  to  the  hotel  to  take  care  of  her. 
They  ought  to  be  together  on  their  wedding  day.  They 
would  have  that  tenderness  to  look  back  upon  through 
all  the  years.  She  must  learn  not  to  be  afraid  of  him. 

As  he  went,  he  was  conscious  of  bodily  weariness. 
He  had  been  living  at  an  intolerable  strain.  The  worry 
of  the  engagement,  the  making  of  a  home,  and  the 
building  up  of  his  schemes  had  racked  him.  His  nerves 
were  all  fretted  and  fretting.  He  wished  that  he  had 
not  persuaded  Rhoda  to  come  to  Las  Palmas  for  the 
honeymoon.  His  body  cried  out  for  rest.  He  was 
seventeen  hundred  miles  from  rest.  Why  had  he  added 
that  strain  to  the  strain  of  marriage  ?  He  told  himself 
that  he  wanted  a  change.  He  could  not  stand  London. 
Six  months  of  London,  after  life  in  the  wilds,  would 
sicken  any  man.  He  had  been  there  nearly  eight.  He 
thrust  his  fatigue  from  him.  He  told  himself  that  the 
morrow  would  be  a  new  day.  The  fever  and  strain 
would  be  forgotten.  He  would  be  with  Rhoda  on  a 
reeling,  sea-bright  deck  watching  France  climb  out  of 
the  sea. 

Chocked  against  the  rail,  holding  their  hats,  they 
would  see  the  topgallant  fo'c'sle  rear  aloft  and  plunge 
down,  burying  the  anchors  in  glitter.  Gulls  would 
come  past.  Fire-bright  spray  would  leap  and  thud. 
"  Whee-ew.  Whee-ew,"  the  gulls  would  cry.  It  would 
be  a  memory  for  ever,  that  flight  of  the  gulls,  poised  by 
the  rail  in  air.  Then  presently  they  would  sight  the 
strange  red  crags  of  the  island.  Las  Palmas,  the  town 
of  his  happiest  holiday.  They  would  step  ashore  to  a 
new  life.  Las  Palmas!  Spoken  slowly,  the  words 
seemed  to  mean  more  than  Round  Pond  and  Welsh 
Harp,  waters  of  Damascus. 


246         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Rhoda  was  in  bed,  in  pain,  when  he  reached  the  hotel. 
A  haggard  ghost  of  her  managed  to  get  into  the  boat- 
train  the  next  morning.  She  sat  back  in  a  corner,  very 
white  and  shivery.  It  was  a  stifling  journey.  On 
getting  aboard  the  steamer,  she  complained  that  she 
felt  sick.  The  smell  of  paint  was  too  much  for  her. 
Her  cabin  opened,  west-coast  fashion,  on  to  the  spar 
deck.  Lionel  persuaded  her  to  turn  in,  and  to  leave 
the  door  upon  the  hook. 

The  ship  was  not  quite  ready  to  sail.  Rhoda  lying 
in  her  bunk  suffered  from  the  noise  of  winches  working 
at  all  three  hatches.  People  came  to  the  cabin,  con- 
tinually. They  dropped  the  hook  with  a  clatter,  pushed 
in,  carrying  bags,  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon/' 
and  pushed  out  again,  clacking  the  hook.  In  the  next 
cabin  a  frightened  dog  was  yelping.  Forward,  at  the 
hatch,  a  Scotch  voice  asked  a  Mr.  Baxter  what  kind  of 
a  bluidy  shinnannikin  he  was  playing  at  down  there. 
"  There  was  only  one  bluidy  sling  in  a  bluidy  ten 
meenits."  The  clatter  of  the  winch  quickened;  the 
blocks  whined.  Then  came  the  orders  "  Hoist/'  and 
"  Stand  from  under/'  followed  by  the  r-r-r-rop  of  slings 
tumbling  on  to  bales.  The  ship's  bell  beat  a  clatter 
overhead;  the  siren  hooted.  The  screws  began  their 
trampling,  driving  her  out.  Soon  they  had  settled  to 
their  beat,  The  ship  was  forging  ahead,  into  the 
Channel,  lifting  to  the  sea.  Rhoda,  lying  in  her  bunk, 
saw  that  her  curtains  had  a  rhythm  as  well  as  an  oscilla- 
tion. 

Late  that  afternoon  the  wind  drew  ahead  and  the  sky 
came  down.  After  a  few  pelting  squalls  it  settled  into 
real  dirt.  Before  tea  time  things  had  begun  to  fetch 
away.  Before  dinner  the  ship  began  to  take  it  in  in  the 
forward  well.  She  was  badly  stowed  and  badly  steered. 
She  made  heart-breaking  weattier  of  it.  Lionel  hung  to 
windward.  His  mackintosh  dipped  with  spray.  There 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         247 

was  a  wet  of  salt  all  over  his  face.  From  time  to  time 
he  beat  up,  to  see  how  Rhoda  felt.  She,  poor  girl,  lay 
in  the  lower  bunk,  deathly  sick  and  ill.  It  was  a  miser- 
able beginning  of  married  life.  Her  illness  took  from 
her  every  trace  of  personality.  She  was  cold,  infinitely 
wretched  clay,  in  pain,  in  misery.  Though  she  was 
shivering  with  cold  she  felt  stifled  for  want  of  air. 
Though  she  wanted  Lionel,  his  presence  filled  her  with 
terror.  She  lay  for  long  hours,  half -unconscious. 
Whenever  her  eyes  opened  she  saw  the  curtain  over  the 
bull's  eye  inclining  gingerly  inboard,  as  though  on  sea- 
legs,  at  each  lee-roll.  It  paused  at  the  point  of  the  roll, 
and  then  steadied  back,  to  flop  against  the  brass  with  a 
click  of  rings.  When  her  eyes  closed,  she  felt  her  body 
making  the  same  response.  Her  mouth  felt  as  though 
some  one  long  ago  had  lit  a  fire  of  brown  paper  in  it ;  but 
long,  long  ago,  so  long  ago  that  only  the  ashes  and  the 
smoke  remained.  In  the  cabin  next  to  hers,  a  sea-sick 
terrier  whimpered  all  night  in  the  upper  bunk.  He 
made  a  human  noise.  It  was  like  a  hurt  child.  "  0, 
O,  O."  It  was  sad.  It  was  heart-breaking. 

Down  in  the  bay  the  ship  nosed  into  it  in  style.  She 
butted  into  the  green,  and  took  it "  that  colour  "  all  along 
her.  She  quivered  and  stopped.  Tons  of  water  came 
aboard.  The  blows  of  the  seas  were  like  hammers  on 
her  heart.  There  would  come  a  deadening  wash,  like 
death  upon  her.  Then  came  a  pause,  that  half  second  of 
pause,  during  which  one  wonders  "  will  she  rise  ?  "  Then 
with  a  whickering  and  welter,  heard  above  the  roar  of 
the  gale,  she  hove  up  and  butted  on.  Whack  went  her 
screws  as  she  chucked  her  stern  out,  and  set  them  racing. 
Groans  and  cries  came  from  along  the  line  of  cabins. 
The  doors  clacked  at  their  hooks.  Washboards  were 
in  the  doorways.  Stewards  sidled  at  acute  angles. 
Stewardesses  passed,  stirring  hot  lemonade.  Whiffs  of 
tobacco  smoke  blew  aft  from  the  watch  on  deck.  The 


248         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

figures  on  the  bridge  stood  with  their  chests  against  the 
canvas,  staring  into  the  dirt  ahead.  It  was  dirt  ahead, 
all  dirt,  solid  dirt.  It  came  out  of  the  night,  black  and 
grim,  with  a  steady  roar,  which  startled.  It  was  as 
though  the  night  had  put  down  her  shoulder  to  heave 
the  ship  back.  Millions  of  yapping  white  hands  rose 
up,  and  yapped,  showing  fangs,  and  raced  away  aft, 
in  the  glitter  cast  by  the  lights.  Below,  in  the  steerage, 
long  since  battened  down,  those  who  weren't  too  sick 
were  drunk.  They  were  pounding  at  the  doors,  amid 
the  stink  and  filth  and  fleas.  The  supper  had  long 
since  fetched  away.  It  lay  in  a  mess,  cluttered  in  its 
pannikins,  to  leeward.  Lionel,  going  aft,  heard  a  roar- 
ing as  of  wild  beasts  below  him.  Songs,  oaths,  screams 
of  women,  groans  of  the  sick.  Hell  was  loose  down  in 
the  steerage.  He  fought  his  way  back  to  Rhoda.  She 
moaned  a  little  and  asked  if  there  were  any  danger. 
She  shuddered  under  his  touch  as  he  put  her  pillow 
straight.  He  did  what  he  could  to  comfort.  Dimly, 
he  sensed  that  she  was  terrified  of  being  alone  with 
him. 

"  I  shall  sleep  on  the  settee,"  he  said.  "  Call  me  if  I 
can  help."  He  tucked  her  in  with  an  extra  blanket. 
Then  wrapping  himself  with  the  adroit  whisk  of  an  old 
campaigner,  he  settled  down  on  the  settee.  He  did  not 
sleep  there.  His  thought  was  that  he  was  at  sea  for 
life  with  a  creature  about  whom  he  was  ignorant.  This 
side  of  woman's  life  had  been  shut  from  him.  He  lay 
awake  for  a  long  time  wondering  why  boys  are  not 
trained  for  marriage.  They  are  trained  for  cricket; 
they  are  trained  for  pheasant-shooting.  They  are 
trained  for  everything  but  companionship  with  a  finer 
nervous  system.  The  gale  roared  aloft.  The  forward 
well  was  full.  Rising  from  his  couch  to  look  to  Rhoda, 
he  found  her  crying,  with  wide  eyes.  She  was  frightened 
and  cold.  She  shrank  from  him.  The  shrinking 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         249 

stiffened  every  line  of  her  with  loathing.     Going  on 
deck  he  sent  a  stewardess  to  her. 

He  stayed  on  deck,  watching  the  green  gleam  scattered 
from  the  side  light  on  to  marching  seas.  Out  there  in 
the  gale  a  wife  seemed  an  impertinence.  One  wanted  a 
comrade,  somebody  who  wouldn't  flinch,  a  help,  a  rally- 
ing point.  Afterwards  he  stood  in  an  alleyway  while 
the  stewardess  reported  to  him,  calling  aloud  in  his  ear. 
"  Called  the  doctor,"  she  shouted.  He  nodded  with 
comprehension.  "  Easier  when  we  reach  Lisbon."  He 
nodded  again.  When  he  went  again  to  the  cabin  Rhoda 
called  to  him  to  leave  her  alone. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  London  there  are  many  hideous  buildings  which 
atone  for  their  want  of  beauty  by  their  size.  It  is 
something  to  be  merely  big  and  strong.  Even  in  the 
daylight  these  buildings  are  impressive.  One  cannot 
look  at  them  without  awe.  He  who  looks  up  at  them 
from  below  experiences  a  thrill,  which  is  partly  fear, 
partly  reverence.  Reverence  for  the  majesty  of  the 
mind  which  overcame  so  much  matter.  Fear  for  the 
personality  of  the  matter  informed  by  the  mind  which 
overcame  it.  All  buildings  have  personality.  But 
the  "  crag  of  building,"  which  only  comes  from  the 
brooding  of  a  mind,  and  the  attention  of  a  myriad  of 
minds,  prolonged,  perhaps,  for  many  months,  has  about 
it  a  mystery  of  inner  life,  which  speaks,  or  is  at  point 
to  speak,  to  all.  Life  looks  out  of  it.  The  windows 
are  eyes,  the  door  a  mouth.  Along  roof  and  dripstone, 
along  sill  and  cornice,  runs  the  manifold  whisper  of  its 
being,  inarticulate  but  terrible,  charged  with  the  strength 
of  many  lives.  At  night,  when  the  streets  cease  to  be 
restless,  when  the  presence  of  the  multitude  no  longer 
gives  them  a  dignity,  the  personality  of  these  buildings 
dominates  the  dark.  The  balefires  of  the  windows  burn. 
The  crag  becomes  a  monster  charged  with  power  upon 
the  soul. 

There  are  many  such  buildings  in  London.  There 
are  streets  which  lie  in  wait.  There  are  corners  where 
the  passions  lurk.  There  are  lifting  roads  which  catch 
the  heart  to  the  sky,  as  though  the  street  opened  out  of 
heaven  infinitely  far  up  the  hill.  In  obscure  corners 
there  are  Oriental  things,  African  things,  suggestions  of 
mosques  and  orange  groves,  the  dust,  the  glare,  brazen 

250 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          251 

death  burning.  In  some  places  there  comes  a  pluck  at 
the  heart,  with  the  sense  that  the  sea  is  round  the 
corner.  The  sea  with  her  ships,  the  ships  full  of  spices, 
coming  out  of  the  East  with  spices,  coming  from  the 
sun  with  perfume,  crushing  bubbles  as  they  come.  In 
other  streets  there  are  forts  of  flats,  guarding  hovels. 
Elsewhere  there  are  streets  like  the  streets  in  dreams. 
One  goes  down  them  wondering  what  lies  at  the  turn, 
what  romance,  what  adventure. 

But  every  street  is  burnt  into  the  brain  of  somebody. 
There  is  a  tragedy  and  a  passion  in  every  house.  There 
is  no  room  in  London  but  is  a  passionate  memory  in  a 
mind.  One  cannot  pass  a  house  without  the  feeling 
that  here  is  a  temple  consecrated  by  man's  thought  to 
the  use  of  all  that  is  divine  in  man,  the  ritual  of  life, 
the  sacrament  of  love,  birth's  miracle,  death's  mystery. 
No  need  for  churches,  and  the  repetition  of  formulae  by 
people  paid  to  repeat  them.  Each  house  is  a  church  of 
the  Holy  Ghost,  each  human  soul  is  a  priest.  A  higher 
ritual  goes  on  in  the  brain  than  ever  was  performed  in 
church.  In  the  brain  life  is  at  work  on  matter.  In  a 
church,  life  confesses  its  incompetence.  /J 

Among  the  monstrous  blocks  of  flats  standing  in  those 
parts  of  London  which  are  not  too  far  from  the  pleasure 
grounds  there  is  one  most  monstrous.  It  is  the  highest 
residential  building  within  the  four-mile  radius.  It 
towers  up  for  many  stories  of  flats  on  the  top  of  the 
high  ground  of  St.  John's  Wood.  It  is  called  Burning 
Mansions.  The  errand-boys  of  the  local  tradesmen 
call  it  Bunny  Mansions. 

Where  it  stands,  it  catches  all  the  winds,  even  the 
north  wind,  broken  by  Hampstead.  It  stands  up  on 
the  hill  like  an  Acropolis.  The  winds  smite  it  from  all 
sides.  It  is  one  of  the  few  buildings  which  can  be  said 
to  dominate  the  town.  It  commands  a  mighty  stretch 
of  London.  From  the  turret  angle  of  the  highest  flat, 


252         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

one  can  look  west  and  south,  over  a  wilderness  of  build- 
ing which  seems  to  go  on  for  ever.  It  is  all  smoky  and 
defiled,  of  a  luminous  grey  when  the  sun  shines,  this 
prospect  from  Burning  Mansions.  When  it  rains,  it  is 
a  study  of  the  cheerless.  At  night  it  is  one  of  the  sights 
of  London.  Standing  there  on  the  leads  outside  the 
topmost  flat  one  can  see  over  the  night  for  miles.  The 
darkness  is  lit  by  many  eyes.  Far  to  the  south  is  the 
glare  in  the  lift  over  Oxford  Street.  Westward,  more 
eyes  gleam  and  go,  on  the  way  to  the  horizon.  Here 
and  there  are  lights  in  a  line,  marking  a  road.  In  other 
places  there  are  brightnesses  about  a  hall,  a  dust  of 
light  in  the  air.  Standing  on  the  leads  watching  the 
darkness,  the  city  seems  to  moan.  Out  of  all  the  welter 
and  thunder  there  comes,  at  times,  something  like  the 
cry  of  a  hurt  thing,  the  moan  of  something  big  and 
blind,  turning  over.  Then  the  moan  dies  away  into  the 
muttering,  and  the  muttering  drones  away  into  the 
night,  as  though  the  world  were  grinding  on  its  axle. 

Very  late  at  night,  in  the  silence,  when  even  the  cabs 
have  gone,  the  light  of  the  lamps  gleams  on  the  windows 
of  Burning  Mansions,  as  the  traveller  goes  by.  The 
gleam  lights  up  and  dies,  as  though,  wandering  within 
there,  a  spectre  struck  the  ghost  of  a  light.  When  day 
begins  to  colour  the  sky  the  high  up  eastern  windows 
brighten.  Over  the  tops  of  the  trees  they  brighten. 
The  lookers-on,  hurrying  to  early  work,  get  from  their 
brightening  some  sense  of  what  the  peaks  of  the  world 
may  be,  solemn  under  the  snows,  high-lifted  over  Asia. 

In  the  daytime,  Burning  Mansions  lifts  its  immense 
bulk  grandly.  The  red  of  its  brick  is  bright.  The 
points  of  the  turrets  are  sharp  against  heaven.  You 
catch  the  majesty  of  the  maker's  thought.  The  germ 
of  the  scheme  has  come  to  stone  in  so  many  places. 
There  are  chateaux  in  Burgundy,  castles  in  the  west  of 
Scotland.  Here  you  have  the  ideas  of  many  feudal 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          253 

centuries  applied  to  a  bigger  age.  You  have  a  chateau 
like  a  palace  in  Babylon.  It  is  big  enough  for  a  hundred 
flats.  It  rises  up  like  a  hill.  Yet  it  is  all  proportioned. 
The  justice  of  its  proportion  does  not  strike  at  first. 
One  sees  the  great  red  crag.  Afterwards,  in  the  awe, 
comes  the  joy  which  all  fine  achievement  brings. 

The  greatest  triumph  of  this  great  house  is  the  tower 
at  the  eastern  end.  Here  three  flats,  one  above  the 
other,  lift  aloft  like  the  great  thing's  head.  All  of  the 
house  is  great.  This  final  rush  at  heaven  is  the  work 
of  genius.  The  thought  goes  spiring  up  to  the  topmost 
story.  There  it  ends  in  a  last  perfection,  four  square, 
with  turrets  at  the  gables. 

All  who  enter  Burning  Mansions  are  content  for  a 
time.  The  house  is  so  fair;  the  prospect,  for  a  while, 
so  big;  man's  pride  of  possession  so  strong.  It  is  when 
beauty  palls,  and  the  sight  dims,  and  the  sense  of  posses- 
sion weakens,  that  one  shrinks  in  that  great  house. 
Then,  hiding  in  some  obscure  landing,  the  place  no  longer 
a  home,  one  wonders  why  one  came  to  live  there.  One 
longs,  then,  for  beauty  of  character,  splendour  of 
mental  vision,  treasures  in  heaven.  One  sees,  then,  that 
the  house  has  claimed  too  much,  that  life  has  not  been 
life  at  all,  but  a  giving  up  of  all  things  for  leave  to  live 
there.  It  is  a  great  house,  but  every  great  house  is  a 
great  selfishness,  if  there  are  any  houseless,  as  there  are. 
And  this  great  house  dominates  the  soul.  It  daunts 
the  souls  of  those  who  live  there.  Till  at  last,  as  they 
go  up  and  down  the  stairs,  they  learn  that  they  do  not 
matter,  that  they  do  not  count,  that  they  are  nobodies. 
They  learn  that  they  are  only  the  red  corpuscles  in  a 
body,  and  that  the  house  is  the  body.  They  live,  and 
are  red,  so  that  the  house  may  be  great.  The  house 
rises  aloft  upon  the  strength  of  its  inmates. 

Lionel  had  taken  the  top  flat  in  Burning  Mansions. 
He  settled  in  there,  with  his  wife,  a  month  sooner  than 


254         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

they  had  planned.  They  never  saw  Las  Palmas.  The 
honeymoon  never  passed  the  first  quarter.  Rhoda's 
illness  brought  the  trip  to  an  end  at  Lisbon.  After 
three  days  of  misery  in  Lisbon  they  took  ship  back  to 
England  and  settled  down  in  an  unready  flat  which 
smelt  of  new  paint.  Rhoda's  illness  was  serious.  The 
doctor  became  a  daily  visitor,  a  nurse  took  up  her  abode 
with  them. 

Other  worries  followed.  They  made  Lionel  glad 
that  he  was  in  town  to  deal  with  them.  His  work  was 
more  exacting  than  he  had  expected.  Much  had  been 
done;  but  an  infinity  remained  to  do.  It  seemed  to 
stretch  on  and  on,  as  work  does.  He  was  always  lavish 
of  himself  when  there  was  work  to  do.  He  did  not 
spare  himself.  London,  never  kind  to  workers,  added 
to  his  worries  by  racking  his  nerves.  His  eyes  were 
heavy  in  his  head.  His  face  began  to  wear  the  hopeless 
look  of  the  overworked. 

He  was  away  from  home  from  half-past  eight  till 
seven,  every  day.  He  came  home  tired  out,  sat  with 
Rhoda  for  a  time,  then  buckled  to  his  work  again. 
Often  he  wrote  far  into  the  night,  trying  to  get  things 
done.  Rhoda  felt  that  she  was  neglected.  She  was 
petulant  and  peevish.  She  could  not  see  that  his 
neglect  of  her  was  justified.  She  twitted  him.  He 
tried  to  explain  that  he  had  involved  his  fortune  in  a 
business,  and  that  he  had  to  carry  the  business  through 
or  lose  his  money.  He  was  very  tired.  He  spoke  con- 
fusedly, from  a  brain  too  weary  to  be  nicely  tactful. 
There  was  an  edge  on  his  speech  which  should  have 
warned  her.  She  did  not  know  when  to  stop.  She 
flicked  him  on  the  raw  nerve.  He  was  not  a  patient 
man;  but  he  was  patient  with  her.  He  was  too  weary 
to  be  cross.  He  sighed.  Taking  down  a  book  of  poems 
he  read  to  her.  Afterwards,  going  to  his  bed,  he  re- 
flected that  the  poets  knew  very  little  about  life 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          255 

Though  he  did  not  know  it,  he  was  going  through  an 
experience  which  comes  to  all  married  men.  Married 
life  begins,  suddenly,  without  preparation.  It  is  unlike 
the  single  life.  A  person  newly  married  is  a  person  with- 
out standards.  He  or  she  has  everything  to  re-arrange. 
The  whole  of  life  has  to  be  re-adapted;  the  outward 
life  and  the  inner  life.  All  passionate  interests  suffer 
check.  They  are  changed,  re-directed,  compromised. 
All  intimacies  end.  The  old,  abundant  easy  selfishness 
is  stopped,  suddenly,  by  a  discipline  bound  to  gall  at 
first.  Marriage  comes  more  easily  to  women  than  to 
men.  They  live  in  a  home  until  they  marry.  Marriage 
sets  them  free.  Men,  as  a  rule,  have  no  home  until  they 
marry.  Marriage  binds  them.  A  few  weeks  after 
marriage: — 

"  O  dreadful  is  the  check,  intense  the  agony, 
When  the  ear  begins  to  hear  and  the  eye  begins  to  see, 
When  the  pulse  begins  to  throb  and  the  brain  to  think  again, 
The  soul  to  feel  the  flesh,  and  the  flesh  to  feel  the  chain/' 

Looking  back  on  it,  long  afterwards,  when  he  had 
attained  to  that  dissatisfaction  with  youth  which 
maturity  (fearing  it  to  be  a  sign  of  age)  is  swift  to  call 
wisdom,  he  saw  how  wretched  those  weeks  must  have 
been  to  her.  He  blamed  himself  for  a  want  of  sym- 
pathy. One  of  the  problems  of  life  is  to  attain  a  fulness 
of  sympathy.  It  is  nothing  more  than  a  capacity  for 
living  outside  the  personality.  All  largeness  of  life  is 
sympathy.  It  is  a  problem  partly  physical,  to  be  faced 
by  all  who  live.  For  ten  extreme  hours  each  day, 
Lionel  gave  himself  to  his  work.  He  spent  himself  like 
coin  in  the  effort  to  make  his  work  succeed.  When  his 
day's  work  was  done,  nothing  of  him  was  left  except 
the  unstrung  nerves.  Nothing  was  left  for  Rhoda. 
How  was  Rhoda  to  understand?  What  is  to  be  done 
in  such  cases?  Time,  never  lavish,  creates,  shall  we 


256         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

say,  once  a  century  a  special  brain.  Once  in  a  lifetime 
he  gives  that  brain  its  chance.  The  hour  brings  on  the 
man.  The  man  marries.  Is  the  world  or  the  wife  to 
suffer?  One  must  be  neglected.  It  is  a  matter  of 
opinion.  Art  is  a  matter  of  opinion.  The  world  will 
not  suffer  much  for  a  little  art  more  or  less.  The  woman 
may  suffer  a  great  deal.  There  are  many  ways  of 
presenting  the  problem. 

Lionel  enjoyed  his  work.  There  is  no  passion  so 
absorbing  as  work.  It  is  woman's  one  dangerous  rival. 
He  was  harassed  by  Rhoda's  illness.  He  cared  for  her. 
He  was  tender  to  her.  But  life  in  the  flat  was  a  strain. 
She  tried  him  to  the  bone.  Once,  after  a  bout  of  nerves, 
he  found  himself  sighing  with  relief  when  his  office  door 
shut  him  from  the  thought  of  her.  He  reproved  him- 
self, searching  his  heart.  He  had  misgivings  that  it 
was  early  in  marriage  to  be  finding  his  work  a  refuge. 
Afterwards  he  felt  the  relief  daily,  without  misgivings 
of  any  kind 

Sometimes,  in  her  good  days,  he  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  old,  far  away,  beautiful  time,  when  she  was  well. 
Going  from  her,  after  such  times,  he  felt  that  the  world 
had  gone  very  well  in  those  old  days.  Rhoda  ill  was  an 
anxiety.  It  struck  him  cold.  It  was  like  an  injustice 
of  the  gods.  It  was  his  first  intimate  anxiety.  No  real 
worry  had  stung  him  till  then.  Coming  suddenly,  as  it 
did,  at  the  moment  when  he  first  felt  the  restrictions 
of  marriage,  and  longed  for  a  complete  freedom,  so 
that  he  might  carry  through  his  work,  it  cramped  his 
nature!  Later,  when  their  nerves  had  gone  to  pieces, 
the  fretted  invalid  touched  a  raw  place  in  him.  He 
answered  tartly.  She  replied  cruelly.  Sickness  is 
always  unjust.  This  sickness  was  more  than  unjust. 
It  was  a  denial  by  life  of  promises  made.  Life  holds  out 
such  promises  to  lovers.  "  You  will  be  happy.  You 
will  be  more  than  happy."  They  had  believed  Life's 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          257 

promises.  They  had  taken  Life's  word  and  Life  had 
cheated  them.  They  had  had  no  happiness,  no  one 
little  glimmer  of  happiness.  Here,  three  months  after 
marriage,  they  took  stock  of  what  marriage  had  brought 
them.  To  her,  marriage  had  brought  a  state  of  tortured 
nerves  in  which  the  thought  and  the  sight  and  the  touch 
of  the  man  whom  she  had  married  were  abominations 
hardly  to  be  endured.  To  him,  marriage  had  brought 
the  knowledge  that  Rhoda  was  equipped  for  a  boudoir, 
not  for  life.  He  had  been  tricked  by  the  charm  of  some- 
thing new  and  untried.  He  had  been  caught  by  a  little 
pretty  red  and  white  bait  agreeably  dangled.  "  Marriage 
goes  on,  sometimes,  for  sixty  years." 


CHAPTER  III 

RHODA  made  a  slow  recovery.  When  she  was  able 
to  get  about  a  little,  with  a  lack-lustre  face,  she  was 
still  nervously  ill.  When  she  was  not  being  bitter, 
she  was  in  tears  for  having  been  bitter,  or  planning 
(with  a  sick  mind's  craft)  new  cause  for  bitterness 
and  tears.  She  could  do  very  little;  she  was  weak  still. 
That  was  another  cause  of  bitterness.  She  had  been  a 
robust  animal.  She  had  never  been  ill  before.  With 
the  vindictiveness  of  the  weak  she  blamed  Lionel  for  her 
sickness  and  for  the  worse  thing,  the  loss  of  her  beauty. 
Ill-health  had  played  sad  tricks  with  her  beauty.  It 
robbed  her  of  the  decorations  which  hid  the  want  of 
character  in  her  face.  A  white  and  bitter  woman  stared 
back  at  her  from  the  glass  now.  It  was  Lionel's  fault; 
it  was  all  his  doing;  going  in  that  disgusting  steamer. 

The  mind  in  sickness  is  illogical,  mean,  suspicious. 
She  was  suspicious.  Like  many  women  of  her  class  she 
had  vague  notions  about  work.  She  did  not  under- 
stand this  "  work  "  of  Lionel's.  That  it  kept  him  from 
her,  even  when  she  was  sick,  was  cause  enough  for  her 
to  suspect  it.  He  never  talked  of  the  work.  She 
brooded  alone,  day  after  day,  on  the  fact  that  he  worked 
in  close  association  with  a  woman  secretary.  Her 
experience  as  a  beauty  had  taught  her  that  it  is  not 
good  for  man  to  be  alone  with  a  woman.  She  saw  the 
creature  advising.  No  doubt  she  liked  him.  Lionel 
was  attractive  to  women.  She  brooded,  bitterly  jealous, 
till  doubt  became  certainty. 

Sickness  is  the  enemy.  Sickness  lets  in  the  devil. 
Sickness  arms  against  us  all  the  lower  selves  locked  up 

258 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          259 

in  our  cellars.  Some  day,  in  the  future,  when  justice 
has  learnt  that  the  body  influences  morals,  sin  will  be 
prescribed  for,  not  sentenced.  A  little  "  cutting  "  with 
a  lancet,  a  little  spurt  of  blood  to  the  shrunk  veins,  and 
the  beast  is  tamed,  the  devil  expelled.  She  was  in  the 
power  of  one  of  the  lower  selves  on  whom  health  turns 
the  key.  She  resolved  on  a  surprise  visit  to  his  office, 
to  see  this  woman.  Early  in  the  afternoon  of  an 
autumn  day,  she  called  upon  him.  A  youth  with 
big  ears  and  what  is  called  a  Hapsburg  lip  told  her  that 
Mr.  Heseltine  was  in ;  but  had  she  got  an  appointment  ? 
She  told  him  "  Yes."  Eyeing  her  with  suspicion  and 
dislike  he  showed  her  in  to  Lionel's  office.  On  her  way 
through  the  outer  office  she  noticed  the  back  of  a  woman 
in  a  blouse,  bent  over  a  typewriter.  The  woman's  hair 
seemed  to  be  unduly  good  "  for  one  in  her  station." 
The  youth  opened  an  inner  door.  She  went  in.  Lionel 
was  alone. 

His  coat  was  off.  He  was  writing  upon  a  pad.  On 
the  floor  at  his  side  a  dozen  typewritten  letters,  moist 
from  the  copying  press,  were  drying.  They  were  like 
fungi  of  a  new  kind.  He  looked  up  as  she  entered,  but 
her  entrance  did  not  lift  the  worry  from  his  face. 

"  Ah,"  he  said.  "  It's  you,  Rhoda.  Sit  down,  dear. 
I  must  just  finish  these  instructions.  Here's  the  Post 
Meridian.  He  handed  her  a  paper,  and  jerked  a  chair 
from  the  wall  for  her.  "I'm  full  up,"  he  said.  "  I 
must  finish  these  instructions." 

He  turned  to  his  work  again.  He  jotted  notes  on  a 
half-written  page.  He  bit  the  end  of  his  pencil. 

A  clerk  entered,  carrying  letters.  He  gave  the  letters 
to  Lionel,  and  stood  aside,  watching  the  flies  on  the 
window.  Lionel  ripped  the  letters  open  with  a  stiletto, 
read  them  through  (he  swore  loudly  while  reading 
one)  and  then  appeared  to  meditate  while  he  tore  the 
envelopes  apart,  to  make  sure  that  they  were  empty. 


26o         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

He  dropped  the  fragments,  one  by  one,  into  a  waste- 
paper  basket. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  Yes."  Starting  from  his  reverie, 
he  turned  to  his  clerk.  "  Come  on,  now,  Andrews." 
Andrews  was  ready  with  pad  and  pencil.  Lionel 
dictated.  "  Von  Huysum  and  Cleavers,"  he  said, 
"  look  up  their  address.  Take  this  down."  He 
dictated  a  long  letter,  which  Andrews  took  down  in 
shorthand.  When  it  was  done,  he  bade  Andrews  read 
it  over.  Lionel  weighed  each  sentence,  making  emenda- 
tions. "  That'll  do,"  he  said.  "  Send  that  off  at  once. 
Wait  a  minute. ' '  He  pencilled  notes  on  the  other  letters. 
"  Take  these  to  Miss  Coleman,"  he  said.  Andrews  took 
the  letters.  Lionel  wrote  another  note  upon  his  pad, 
threw  the  pencil  down,  and  spun  round  to  face  his  wife. 

"I'm  sorry,  Rhoda,"  he  said,  "I'll  be  free  directly." 
The  telephone  bell  rang.  He  cursed,  took  up  the  re- 
ceiver and  listened.  "  Yes.  Yes,"  he  said,  impatiently. 
"  No.  No.  I  tell  you  it  isn't.  What's  that  you  say? 
I  can't  hear.  Not  got  them?  Why  haven't  you  got 
them  ?  I  say.  What  have  you  been  playing  at  ?  You 
don't  know?  Who  are  you?"  He  muttered  im- 
patiently while  he  waited  for  an  answer.  As  no  answer 
came,  he  rang  the  bell  with  all  the  venom  of  the  over- 
wrought. A  little  metallic  sing-song  voice  came  from 
far  away. 

"  What  are  you  playing  at  ?  "  he  cried  in  reply.  "  Are 
you  Wheeler's  ?  Who  are  you  ?  Well,  tell  Mr.  Wheeler 
that  I'm  Snip  Snap.  Tell  him  to  come  at  once.  He's 
at  his  dinner?  Tell  him  to  drop  his  dinner."  There 
was  a  pause.  Lionel  fidgeted  about  near  the  telephone. 
"  These  fools  will  drive  me  mad,"  he  said.  "  Idiots. 
Idiots."  The  voice  spoke  again.  Lionel's  manner 
changed  at  once  to  the  genial.  "  Now,  look  here, 
Wheeler,"  he  said,  "  we  all  know  you're  a  humourist. 
What's  that?"  He  laughed.  "Well,  my  dear  man, 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          261 

I'm  stuck.  I  must  have  them.  When  will  they  be 
ready?  Not  till  Tuesday?  I  can  get  them  ready 
made  by  to-morrow.  What?  I  can.  What?  You'll 
let  me  have  three  to  go  on  with."  He  flung  down  the 
receiver,  swearing.  "  The  brutes  have  cut  me  off/1  he 
cried.  He  swirled  round  the  bell  handle  furiously. 
"  Four  five  seven  nine,  Pelham,"  he  shouted.  "  Why 
did  you  shut  me  off  like  that  ?  Is  that  you,  Wheeler  ? 
Yes.  Yes.  Well.  Three's  no  good.  It  must  be  five 
or  fight.  What?  Oh,  yes.  I  daresay.  I'm  not  a 
Christian  Martyr.  Five.  By  to-morrow  morning,  or 
I  cancel  the  order.  You  quite  understand?  What? 
How  did  the  golf  go  ?  I  shall  expect  five,  then.  Good- 
bye." He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  turned  again  to 
Rhoda. 

"  This  work  drives  one  mad,"  he  said.  "  How  did 
you  get  down  here  ?  "  Before  she  could  answer,  William 
entered  with  a  card.  Lionel  looked  at  it.  He  sighed. 

"  I  must  see  this  man,"  he  said.  "  Show  him  into 
the  waiting-room.  I'll  be  out  directly.  I'm  sorry, 
Rhoda.  I  daresay  he  won't  be  long."  He  slipped  into 
his  coat,  patted  his  hair  before  a  looking-glass,  and  went 
out  hurriedly.  Rhoda  was  left  alone  with  a  telephone, 
the  bell  of  which  rang  at  intervals  as  though  it  would 
never  be  old.  She  picked  up  the  Post  Meridian.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  stupid  number.  She  was  tired.  The 
clacking  of  the  typewriter  in  the  outer  office  jarred  upon 
her.  Through  the  open  window  she  saw  the  head  of  a 
typist  bent  over  a  machine  in  an  office  across  the  road. 
There  was  a  gloss  upon  the  girl's  hair. 

The  office  was  furnished  with  a  pale,  shiny  roll-top 
desk,  evidently  new.  Beside  the  desk  was  a  table, 
heaped  with  papers.  Beneath  the  table,  magazines  and 
papers  littered  the  red  "  plain  cloth  "  linoleum  which 
covered  the  floor.  The  room  had  an  air  of  newness. 
It  had  the  raw  look  of  a  room  hired  for  the  making  of 


262          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

something  temporary.  The  white  walls  glared,  the 
electric  light  glared,  the  new  waste-paper  basket  glared. 
Yes,  in  spite  of  the  brightness  and  the  shininess  the 
impression  given  was  one  of  litter.  The  place  was  a 
criticism  of  the  business  done  there. 

There  was  a  paste-pot  on  the  mantel.  In  one  corner, 
a  copying-press  stood  on  a  little  iron  stand.  In  the 
middle  of  the  wall,  facing  the  armchair  in  which  she  sat, 
were  framed  "  pulls  "  of  a  poster  and  a  contents  bill. 
The  poster  represented  a  smiling  couple  dressed  as 
people  are  dressed  "  for  the  river  "  in  the  advertise- 
ments of  tailors.  They  were  bending  towards  each 
other,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes.  Their  left  hands 
held  between  them  a  copy  of  a  weekly  paper.  Their 
right  hands,  armed  with  scissors,  were  cutting  this 
paper  in  two. 

Over  the  heads  of  the  couple  the  words  SNIP  SNAP 
curved  in  big  red  letters.  Beneath  their  feet  smaller 
letters  denned  Snip  Snap  as  the  New  Penny  Weekly. 

The  contents  bill  showed  a  rather  stronger  sense  of 
design.  The  ground  of  the  bill  was  blue.  The  borders 
were  decorated  with  a  pattern  of  snapping  scissors 
(gules).  These  scissors,  tortured  into  the  shape  of 
letters,  contrived  to  spell  the  name  of  Snip  Snap  at  the 
top  of  the  sheet.  The  centre  bore  what  seemed  to  be  a 
litter  of  snowflakes.  These  snowflakes  when  looked  at 
more  closely  proved  to  be  snippets  of  paper.  On  each 
snippet  the  title  of  an  article  to  be  found  in  the  paper 
thus:— 

LAVINIA'S  COURTSHIP, 
A  true  tale  of  love  in  high  life. 

Turning  in  her  chair,  Rhoda  looked  at  the  other  walls. 
On  the  wall  behind  her  was  the  framed  "  pull  "  of 
another  poster.  It  represented  a  black  pirate-flag  or 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          263 

Jolly  Roger.  In  the  centre,  instead  of  skull  and  cross- 
bones,  was  a  girl's  head  above  a  big,  open  pair  of  scissors. 
The  head  and  scissors  were  printed  in  red.  Below  (also 
in  red)  was  the  legend,  "  id.  Snip  Snap  id." 

Rhoda  looked  round  the  office  again.  The  vulgarity 
of  it  struck  her  cold.  No  single  thing  there  had  any 
word  for  her.  She  had  never  felt  so  cowed.  She  had 
entered,  suddenly,  a  new  world.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  was  in  Yarmouth  in  the  month  of  August.  Some 
copies  of  a  paper  lay  in  a  heap  in  the  fireplace  beside  her. 
Their  white  covers  bore  the  words  Snip  Snap  in  big  blue 
letters.  She  thought  that  they  were  numbers  of  the 
paper.  They  were  the  "  pulls "  of  dummies  which 
Lionel  had  put  together  before  the  paper  took  final 
form.  They  were,  as  it  were,  "  studies  "  for  the  new 
paper.  They  showed  what  sort  of  thing  the  paper 
would  be.  She  looked  at  them. 

She  soon  guessed  their  nature.  The  upper  copies 
were  made  up  of  blank  sheets  on  which  Lionel  had 
written  notes  and  rough  sketches.  Lower  down  in  the 
heap  were  dummies  made  up  of  pages  cut  from  other 
papers.  Here  and  there  in  the  pile  were  printed  speci- 
men numbers,  with  many  marginal  notes  in  Lionel's 
hand.  She  turned  the  leaves  of  one  of  these  specimen 
numbers.  It  seemed  to  her  to  be  the  sort  of  paper 
which  a  shop  girl  would  read  on  bank  holiday.  She 
was  struck  by  the  title  of  the  serial,  "  The  Stain  on  the 
Panel."  She  read  a  little  of  the  story. 

"  A  dead  woman. 

"  For  surely  that  white  shape  was  not  alive! 

"  A  dead  woman. 

"  No  sound  in  the  richly  furnished  room.  The  lamp- 
light fell  on  choice  examples  of  marquetrie,  on  the 
jewelled  paper-knife  between  the  leaves  of  Figaro.  All 
was  still. 

"  No  sound. 


264         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  A  dead  woman. 

"  There  was  an  opera  cloak  upon  one  of  the  chairs. 
Its  folds  of  some  warm,  clinging  material  exhaled  a  faint 
aroma  of  patchouli.  Could  those  soft  satiny  folds 
speak,  what  mystery  might  they  not  reveal? 

"  No  sound. 

"Was  she  dead? 

"  Surely  that  voluptuous  shape,  those  richly  tinted 
cheeks  still  bearing  the  hue  of  health,  that  magnificent 
arm,  better  fitted  to  sway  a  fan  in  some  salon  of  the 
great  than  .  .  ." 

The  youth  who  had  let  her  in  entered,  bearing  letters. 
He  advanced  in  a  straight  line  from  the  door  to  the  desk, 
without  taking  his  eyes  from  her.  His  stare  was  not 
rude,  since  there  was  no  rude  intention.  He  had  no 
suspicion  that  his  stare  might  be  offensive.  He  wanted 
to  see  the  boss's  wife.  How  else  could  he  see  her  ?  His 
ears  were  so  big  that  they  seemed  to  flap.  His  mouth 
hung  open,  rather.  He  put  the  letters  on  the  desk. 
Catching  her  eyes  upon  him  he  blushed  crimson.  He 
stooped  to  pick  from  the  floor  the  now  dry  copied  letters. 
He  tested  the  dryness  of  each  letter  by  pressing  it  to  his 
cheek  with  a  big  red  hand.  He  read  through  one  or 
two  of  the  letters,  sheepishly  grinning.  When  he  had 
gathered  them  all,  he  walked  slowly  towards  the  door. 
Rhoda  felt  that  his  head  was  turned  over  his  shoulder 
Parthian  fashion.  She  felt  his  eyes,  one  on  each  side 
of  her  neck.  A  fumbling  noise  from  the  door-handle 
told  her  that  he  had  paused  for  a  last  look,  holding  the 
door  ajar.  She  was  indignant.  She  rose,  turning  to 
him.  She  was  in  time  to  see  him  slip  through  the  door 
in  a  hurry,  almost  spilling  his  letters.  Afterwards,  she 
saw  the  outline  of  his  head  upon  the  glass  of  the  door. 
He  was  trying  to  peep  through  at  her. 

The  outline  of  the  head  vanished  suddenly.  Lionel 
appeared.  He  entered  hurriedly,  in  bad  humour.  "  I 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          265 

must  just  send  a  telegram,"  he  said.  He  tore  a  form 
from  a  book,  and  left  the  room  with  it.  Rhoda  waited 
for  him. 

The  place  gave  her  the  feeling  of  pollution.  She  felt 
that  she  could  not  wear  that  dress  again.  She  looked 
from  the  vulgar  poster  on  the  wall  to  the  vulgar  story 
in  the  fireplace.  This  was  the  work  which  kept  Lionel 
from  her.  Lionel's  work  was  this.  Something  which 
she  could  not  have  in  the  house.  And  the  office,  too. 
She  had  never  before  been  in  an  office.  She  had  read 
about  offices  in  Dickens.  She  had  seen  them  on  theatre 
stages.  She  had  expected  a  comfortable  room,  with  an 
Axminster  carpet  all  bright  reds,  blues,  and  greens,  and 
ruddy,  solid  mahogany  furniture.  The  walls  of  the 
office  of  her  fancy  were  lined  with  deed-boxes,  or  with 
shelves  full  of  law  books.  She  had  expected  prosperity, 
waistcoats,  gold  watch-chains,  mutton-chop  whiskers. 
She  had  indeed  told  herself  that  a  newspaper  office 
would  look,  perhaps,  less  "  practical."  It  would  look 
like  a  bank.  There  would  be  a  line  of  green  shaded 
lamps  under  which  young  gentlemen  wrote  short 
stories.  But  this. 

She  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  horrible  room.  Perhaps 
some  of  her  anger  was  due  less  to  an  outraged  taste,  than 
to  being  kept  waiting  when  she  was  tired.  Illness  goes 
over  a  man  like  a  wave.  It  goes  through  a  woman  like 
corrosive.  The  stare  of  the  office  boy  had  been  like  a 
touch  on  the  burnt  ends  of  nerves.  She  was  bitter  at 
the  heart.  She  asked  herself  in  a  bitter  instant  if  the 
slobber-mouthed  boy  who  stared  were  the  author  of  the 
story  about  the  corpse.  What  a  place,  what  a  tone, 
what  people.  And  Lionel!  And  she,  herself,  involved, 
implicated,  tacitly  made  one  with  it.  She  sat  again  in 
the  chair,  waiting  for  Lionel.  She  sat  erect,  shrinking. 
She  was  always  sensitive  to  her  surroundings.  Since 
her  illness  she  had  suffered  daily  from  that  sensitiveness. 


266         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

She  had  dreaded  contaminations,  dreaded  certain 
touches,  the  touch  of  dirt  or  death.  The  office,  the 
fuming  at  the  telephone,  the  boy  with  ears  like  flaps, 
the  clack  of  the  half-dozen  typewriters,  the  smell  of  the 
new  linoleum  all  laid  the  touch  of  dirt  upon  her.  The 
story  with  its  flavour  of  the  sidewalk  and  the  gutter  was 
like  death's  finger  on  her  mind.  How  much  longer 
would  Lionel  keep  her  in  that  horrible  place  ? 

He  came  at  last.  He  entered  with  a  rush,  leaving 
the  door  open.  The  clack  of  the  typewriters  grew 
suddenly  louder.  "  I  say,  I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "  It's 
dull  for  you.  Where  did  I  put  it?"  He  rummaged 
quickly  among  the  papers  on  his  desk.  "  Things  get 
lost  so,"  he  explained,  peevishly.  "  Never  mind, 
Andrews,"  he  shouted,  "  I've  got  it  here.  Sha'n't  be  a 
minute,  Rhoda,"  he  added,  as  he  hurried  out.  In  his 
hurry  he  slammed  the  door  behind  him,  sending  a  shock 
along  every  nerve  in  her  body.  She  started,  drawing 
in  frightened  breath  through  her  teeth.  William,  the 
office  boy,  entered  with  another  batch  of  letters.  This 
time  she  looked  through  him  with  eyes  which  checked 
his  curiosity.  His  abashed  face  reddened.  He  left  the 
letters  on  the  desk. 

Rhoda  waited  for  long  minutes. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  can't  stay  here." 
As  she  got  up  to  go,  Miss  Coleman  entered,  carrying  a 
t37pe-written  folio-sheet.  The  women  looked  at  each 
other  for  the  hard,  bright  perceptive  second.  They 
took  each  other  in,  body  and  soul,  in  one  glance.  The 
air  round  each  woman  quickened  on  the  instant  with 
instinctive  antipathy.  They  belonged  to  the  opposing 
camps  of  woman.  Rhoda  divined  the  essential  Miss 
Coleman  from  the  narrow  lace  edging  at  the  throat  of 
the  mouse-coloured  blouse.  Instantly  she  assumed  the 
queenly  indifferent.  She  herself  was  delicately  bien 
mise.  She  knew  enough  of  her  sex  to  know  how  that 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          267 

would  rankle,  even  in  the  bosom  of  one  of  the  other 
camp.  Miss  Coleman  placed  the  paper  upon  Lionel's 
desk.  She  searched  for  something  in  one  of  the  pigeon- 
holes of  the  desk.  Though  she  seemed  unconscious  of 
Rhoda's  presence,  a  little  quick  blood  in  her  neck,  as 
she  stooped,  and  a  second's  too  long  hunt  for  the  miss- 
ing thing  betrayed  her.  The  delicately  dressed,  gloved, 
hatted,  perfumed  lady  made  her  feel  out  of  it,  conscious 
of  every  dulness,  indignantly  conscious. 

She  found  what  she  wanted.  She  started  for  the  door 
carrying  three  little  books.  She  wore  an  indifferent 
face.  Behind  it  was  the  certainty  that  soul  for  soul  she 
was  the  finer  woman.  Rhoda  ignored  her  presence. 
Her  thought  was  "  that  person  knows  Lionel's  affairs 
better  than  I."  She  did  not  grudge  the  knowledge. 
What  hurt  was  the  vulgarity  of  the  affairs.  The  low- 
ness  of  the  conspiracy  hurt,  not  the  conspirators.  She 
looked  at  the  papers  on  the  desk.  The  sheet  which 
Miss  Coleman  had  brought  was  the  draft  of  an  agree- 
ment by  which  Lionel  was  to  pledge  his  "  heirs,  adminis- 
trators and  assigns."  She  picked  up  a  letter.  It  was 
from  one  T.  Neegate,  who  seemed  to  be  the  head  of  a 
distributing  agency.  She  read  it  through.  She  had 
never  seen  such  a  letter.  It  was  the  letter  of  a  vulgar 
mind  furiously  angry.  Lionel's  note  upon  it,  "  No 
answer,  File  "  shocked  her.  Surely  he  would  horsewhip 
the  writer.  Lionel  found  her  moving  up  and  down  the 
room  with  the  air  of  exasperated  patience,  with  which 
tigers  pace  their  cages.  He  came  in  with,  "  Now,  I  say, 
I'm  sorry,  Rhoda.  Here  you've  been  all  this  time.  I 
got  kept."  He  looked  at  himself  in  the  little  desk- 
mirror,  shovelled  aside  the  newly-come  letters  and  shut 
the  desk  with  a  snap.  "  We'll  get  a  taxi,"  he  said. 
She  drew  herself  rigid.  She  looked  at  him  without 
speaking.  William  came  to  the  door.  "  Mr.  Neegate 
to  see  you,  sir,"  he  said. 


268          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"Mr.  Neegate?"  said  Lionel.  "  TeU  him  I'm 
engaged.  No.  Tell  him  I  won't  see  him." 

"  'E  says  it's  very  important,  sir.  'E  won't  keep 
you  a  minute." 

"I'm  not  going  to  see  him,"  said  Lionel.  "  Go  and 
call  a  taxi."  William  left  the  room.  Lionel  took  his 
hat  from  the  peg.  He  turned  to  his  wife. 

"  Poor  old  Rhoda,"  he  said.  "  I  owe  you  a  treat  for 
this.  We'll  get  away  for  the  week-end  somewhere. 
To  the  New  Forest  or  Chideock  or  somewhere."  There 
came  from  the  outer  office  a  sound  of  violent  footsteps. 
The  door  opened.  A  tall  gross-faced,  low-looking  man 
appeared.  He  had  the  stub  of  a  cigar  between  his  teeth. 

"What's  this,"  he  said,  "about  not  seeing  me? 
Eh?" 

"  Outside,"  said  Lionel  quickly.  Without  direct 
contact  he  had  the  man  out  of  the  room  in  two  seconds. 
Rhoda  was  left  alone.  She  heard  the  man  storming  in 
the  outer  office.  Were  they  going  to  fight.  After  a 
minute  of  abuse,  Lionel  spoke  a  few  words,  very  gently. 
She  could  not  hear  what  they  were.  She  tried  hard  to 
hear.  They  had  a  strange  effect  on  the  visitor.  They 
took  all  the  poison  out  of  him.  His  next  words 
were — 

"  Wot'jermean?  ...  Oh!"  ...  There  was  a  long 
pause.  The  man  surrendered.  He  apologised  in  a 
broken  voice.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir."  Lionel's 
answer  was — 

"  I  don't  allow  smoking  here.  Take  that  cigar  out 
of  your  mouth.  Don't  come  here  again." 

After  a  minute  or  two,  Lionel  came  back  to  Rhoda. 
He  was  muttering  about  swine. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  saw  that,  dear,"  he  said.  "  You 
weren't  frightened?  He's  a  hard-headed,  practical 
business  man."  He  walked  to  his  desk,  took  out  the 
letter  from  T.  Neegate,  and  locked  it  up  in  the  safe. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          269 

"  Taxi's  at  the  door,  Mr.  'Eseltine,"  said  William. 

"Might  I  speak  to  you  a  minute?"  said  Miss 
Coleman. 

Rhoda  sailed  past  Miss  Coleman. 

"  You  can't  now,  Lionel,"  she  said,  crossly.  "  Your 
work  must  wait.  Your  wife  has  waited  long  enough.  "* 
It  was  one  of  the  thrusts  that  fester. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHEN  she  was  well  enough  to  travel,  she  went  into  the 
country  to  stay  with  Dora,  in  the  house  near  Ponton 
Hill,  where  so  much  had  happened.  She  went  alone, 
for  Lionel  was  much  too  busy  to  leave  town.  He  was 
"  getting  things  ready."  She  arrived  at  Pudsey  weak, 
white,  and  ill,  much  at  war  with  herself.  She  settled 
down  to  a  life  like  she  had  led  of  old,  except  that  the 
zest  for  it  was  gone.  Dora  was  kind.  The  bright  days 
of  late  autumn  brought  back  the  colour  to  her  cheeks. 
She  gathered  strength.  Dora's  tenderness  taught  her 
that  Lionel  was  very  unperceptive.  Only,  she  wanted 
more  than  Dora.  She  wanted  the  love  which  had  made 
Pudsey  magical  six  months  before.  Yet,  as  she  told 
herself,  she  did  not  want  Lionel.  The  thought  of  being 
touched  by  him  made  her  shrink. 

Many  memories  made  her  shrinking  more  hysterical. 
The  nights  in  the  steamer,  the  lonely  days  in  the  flat, 
the  countless  moments  that  had  revealed  a  want  of 
sympathy  in  him.  That  was  her  great  want.  She 
wanted  sympathy.  Dora,  of  course,  was  full  of  sym- 
pathy, but  a  veil  had  been  drawn  between  Dora  and 
herself.  Dora's  sympathy  could  no  longer  touch  the 
deep  places  in  her.  She  had  known  a  greater  tender- 
ness than  Dora's. 

She  might  have  been  fanned  to  a  glow  by  a  touch  of 
tenderness  in  Lionel's  letters  to  her.  There  was  no 
tenderness ;  not  more,  at  any  rate,  than  saved  the  letters 
from  the  hum-drum.  They  were  the  letters  of  a  very 
busy,  very  much  worried,  tired  man.  She  had  been 
used  to  tenderer  letters  from  him,  in  the  old  days,  when 
she  was  well,  before  this  "  work  "  became  so  exacting. 

270 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          271 

The  thought  that  that  work  was  the  cause  of  his  want 
of  tenderness  was  another  mark  against  him.  Perhaps 
he  thought  that  a  wife  needed  no  tenderness,  that  she 
was  "  safe/'  legally  his.  She  sat  by  a  fire,  white  and 
bitter,  hour  after  hour,  condemning  him  lest  she  should 
condemn  herself.  He  was  to  come  to  Pudsey  for  the 
week-end.  She  did  not  want  him.  How  could  she 
escape  him?  What  lie  could  she  tell?  This  freedom 
was  precious  to  her.  She  would  not  see  him.  How 
could  she  see  him  in  the  house  where  their  love  had 
been?  No  one  but  a  man  would  be  so  tactless  as  to 
suggest  it.  He  was  so  tactless,  so  careless  of  her  point 
of  view.  He  would  remind  her  of  that  love-time  as 
though  it  were  still  going  on.  Why,  it  was  burning  in 
her  brain  as  nothing  but  the  memory  of  a  madness  can. 
He  would  expect  her  to  kiss  him.  She  drew  in  her 
breath,  clenching  her  teeth  upon  her  lip.  What  mad- 
ness had  worked  in  her  in  April?  She  had  given  him 
this  right,  thinking  that  she  could  trust  him.  It  had 
all  seemed  so  beautiful.  Surely  no  one  but  a  brute 
beast!  "  Oh,  but  men  are  like  that.  Men  are  like 
that,"  she  said  in  her  shudder.  All  the  torment  of 
terror  that  had  shaken  her  in  the  nights  on  the  steamer 
returned  now.  It  was  worse,  now,  than  then.  Then 
she  had  still  her  trust  in  him.  She  had  known  that  he 
cared  for  her,  for  her  intimate  essential  self,  the  little 
inside  soul  that  made  the  jelly  of  her  eyes  alive.  Now. 
.  .  .  Fear  that  she  was  not  safe  from  him  made  her 
cower.  She  had  watched  him.  She  had  weighed  him. 
He  had  been  tested.  All  through  her  illness  he  had 
been  under  the  microscope  of  a  narrow  nature.  He 
did  not  love  her  as  she  wanted  to  be  loved,  as  a  woman 
ought  to  be  loved.  How  could  she  love  him?  Little 
deadnesses  in  him,  little  failures  in  responsion  and 
understanding,  grew  intense  now.  They  hurt.  They 
swelled  the  distaste  to  an  antipathy.  She  had  loved 


272          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

that  thing.  Now  she  saw  him.  That  thing  had  held 
her  in  his  arms,  kissing  her,  here,  in  this  very  house. 
He  was  her  husband,  with  rights  over  her.  Once,  as 
she  lay  on  that  sofa,  he  had  bent  down  and  kissed  her 
throat.  The  memory  of  that  kiss  forced  her  to  another 
seat.  How  could  she  wipe  away  from  her  all  the  stains 
of  those  memories.  They  made  her  feel  unclean.  All 
the  room  was  foul  with  memories  of  him.  The  memory 
that  he  had  sat  there  was  like  his  presence  there. 
Feeling  contaminated,  she  drew  up  a  creepy-stool. 
"  Dora  doesn't  understand,"  she  thought,  bitterly. 
"  She  thinks  it's  only  my  illness.  It's  a  revolt  of 
me." 

But  he  was  to  be  with  her  that  evening.  Freedom  is 
always  a  dangerous  gift.  Freedom  makes  men  con- 
temptuous of  the  ruler,  critical  of  the  law-giver.  It 
gives  him  ideas  of  his  sanctity  not  borne  out  by  the 
facts.  While  she  had  been  with  him,  his  presence  had 
caused  a  kind  of  tolerance.  Now  that  she  was  away 
from  him  she  saw  him  in  the  round.  How  could  she 
greet  him?  How  could  she  endure  to  be  touched  and 
held  and  kissed?  How  was  she  to  stand  up  and  play 
the  wife?  In  a  few  days  she  would  have  to  go  back  to 
him.  The  wheel  of  life  in  common  would  go  round 
again,  an  Ixion's  wheel  spinning  to  death  with  two 
martyrs.  "  I  must  have  these  few  days  unpolluted," 
she  muttered.  "  Oh,  let  him  miss  the  train  or  let  him 
be  too  busy.  Don't  let  him  come  here  to  spoil  these 
few  days." 

The  hours  passed.  Dora  came  in  for  tea.  Rhoda's 
memory  stung  her  with  impressions  of  past  hours  there. 
He  had  so  often  sat  there  with  her.  The  Indian  brass 
tea-tray  had  reflected  their  faces  on  that  night  of 
wonder  in  April.  They  had  taken  their  coffee  cups 
from  it,  sitting  side  by  side.  Dora  was  as  red  in  the 
face  as  a  ploughman's  lass.  She  had  been  playing 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          273 

rounders  at  the  Rectory.  It  seemed  insensitive  of  her 
to  look  so  well  when  her  friend  was  so  miserable. 

"  Lionel  hasn't  come,  I  suppose?  " 

"  No.     Not  yet." 

"  You  think  he'll  come?" 

"  He  may.  I've  not  heard.  He  would  be  very  nice, 
of  course.  Only,  I  don't  know.  Men  in  the  house  are 
so  trying." 

"  They're  rather  good  at  rounders,"  said  Dora.  "  I 
suppose  they  are  best  out  of  doors.  Doing  something. 
I  remember  Colin  Maunsel  saying  that  the  secret  of 
the  Navy  is  that  the  men  are  always  doing  something. 
They're  very  clumsy,  of  course.  They  want  a  good  big 
place,  like  a  field  or  a  ship  or  something.  Still.  There 
it  is,  if  you  can  only  get  them  to  do  it.  What  does 
Lionel  do?" 

"  Oh,  his  newspaper  work.  And  in  his  spare  time  he 
routs  out  boys  from  the  slums.  I  don't  pretend  to  be 
interested  in  the  slums.  London  slums  disgust  me. 
Don't  they  you?" 

"  I  don't  like  modern  things.  And  English  institu- 
tions bore  me,  I  confess.  There's  a  certain  amount  of 
romance  in  slums,  I  suppose,  if  one's  a  midwife  or  a 
thug  or  something.  But  then  one  never  is.  I 
suppose  that's  the  drawback  really.  I  suppose  one 
never  really  sees  the  romance  of  a  thing  till  one  has  lived 
in  it  and  got  out  of  it.  What  does  Lionel  find  in  the 
slums?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  '  Character  '  is  what  he's  always 
talking  about." 

"  I  suppose  there  are  some  queer  characters  in  the 
slums.  I  knew  an  old  woman  in  Hoxton  once  who  used 
to  sing  '  Holy,  Holy,  Holy '  in  the  street  till  she'd  got 
enough  to  get  drunk  on,  and  then  she  sang  '  Chase  me, 
Charlie,'  till  she  was  run  in."  Footsteps  sounded  out- 
side on  the  path  from  the  gate  to  the  door.  Rhoda's 

s 


274         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

face  changed  under  a  little  momentary  access  of  disgust. 
There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  "  Here  he  is/'  she 
muttered. 

"  It's  not  Lionel/'  said  Dora.  "  It's  a  telegram." 
The  telegram  was  from  Lionel  to  Rhoda.  It  said  that 
he  had  been  detained  at  the  last  minute. 

"  Does  that  mean  that  he's  not  coming  to-night?  " 

"  It's  very  unprecise." 

"  A  nuisance,"  Dora  said.  "  Well,  shall  I  order  the 
fly  ?  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  No.     Why  should  you  ?     He  can  walk  up." 

"  Yes,  but  men  swear  so  if  they  have  to  walk  up  late 
at  night.  And  it  makes  them  so  red  in  the  face  when 
they  come  in." 

'  The  walk  would  do  him  good.     Don't  order  the  fly." 

After  tea,  Rhoda  condemned  Lionel  for  failing  to 
come.  He  could  not  care  for  her.  He  cared  for  his 
work  more  than  for  her.  With  a  vindictiveness  common 
among  the  unhappy  she  surrendered  herself  to  bitterness 
against  him.  Her  thoughts  ran  on  one  track.  "  If  he 
had  any  thought  of  me  he'd  come  to  see  me.  But  he 
hasn't  and  he  doesn't.  And  if  he  won't  take  the 
trouble  to  keep  my  love,  now  that  we  are  married,  he 
will  be  to  blame.  He  can't  expect  me  to  be  the  same 
to  him,  and  I  won't  be." 

She  flung  herself  on  the  bed  in  her  room  in  a  mood 
too  bitter  for  tears.  Bad  temper  is  seldom  relieved  by 
tears.  Man,  realising  this,  invented  swearing;  woman 
cannot  swear.  Dora's  mention  of  Colin  Maunsel  made 
|  pier  think  of  another  time  in  her  life.  She  thought  of 
a  dance  at  a  country  house  fourteen  months  before. 
There  was  a  bower  among  laurel  bushes.  Those  sitting 
there  heard  the  music  of  the  waltzes.  Japanese  lanterns 
glowed  in  the  twilight  like  luminous  fruit.  Moths 
fluttered  about  them,  or  settled  on  the  laurel  leaves  to 
stare,  moving  blurred  antennae.  Very  dimly  in  the 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         275 

dusk  the  dancers  passed  about  the  garden,  smelling  the 
scent  of  drowsy  flowers,  and  wondering  at  the  stars. 
She  had  sat  there  with  Colin  Maunsel,  hearing  sweet 
things.  "  Are  all  marriages  like  mine  ?  "  she  murmured, 
shutting  her  eyes.  "  Surely  some  men  understand. 
Oh,  I  must  be  unlucky.  If  men  can't  love  without 
that,  women  would  kill  themselves/'  She  saw  that 
garden  of  the  past,  dim  under  the  moonrise,  magical 
with  the  fall  of  the  waltz.  She  heard  again  the  words 
spoken  to  her  in  the  bower.  Colin  Maunsel  wasn't  like 
other  men.  She  had  heard  an  older  woman  praise  him 
as  a  man  who  could  be  a  friend  to  women.  If  she  had 
married  such  a  man.  If  she  had  hearkened  that  night, 
helped  him  when  his  voice  failed,  given  the  least  sign. 

The  brains  of  emotional  people  are  full  of  images.  So 
is  water.  Their  brains  are  tidal,  with  but  a  few  hours 
interval  between  the  flow  and  the  ebb.  Like  water, 
their  brains  reflect  images  without  reflecting  upon  them. 
It  is  the  curse  of  the  emotional  brain  that  it  cannot  dis- 
tinguish between  an  impression  and  a  truth. 

Rhoda  sat  with  Dora  that  evening  after  dinner.  The 
last  post  came.  A  boy  brought  it  with  the  groceries. 
An  advertisement  for  Rhoda,  two  letters  for  Dora, 
addressed  in  familiar  writing. 

"  What  does  Milly  say?  "  Rhoda  asked. 

"  They've  let  their  house.  That'll  be  nice  for  them. 
They'll  be  able  to  get  away."  Dora  opened  the  other 
letter,  conscious  that  the  sight  of  it  had  brought  the 
blood  into  Rhoda's  cheeks.  "  From  Colin  Maunsel/' 
she  said. 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"  He's  settled  down  on  that  estate  he  was  left,  Pew- 
cester,  in  Wiltshire.  A  pity  he  left  the  Navy.  He 
must  be  as  rich  as  a  Jew.  Well,  I  wish  I  had  more 
of  his  complaint."  She  skimmed  through  the  letter. 
"  He  wants  to  motor  over.  I'll  just  tell  him  he  can't." 


276          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Rhoda  was  crimson.  "  I  wouldn't  mind  meeting 
him/'  she  said. 

"  We'll  have  him  if  you  like." 

"  I  don't  particularly  want  to  meet  him.  But  if  he 
wants  to  come,  it  seems  a  pity  not  to.  You  think  he 
was  in  love  with  me.  He  wasn't.  He  danced  with  me, 
and  we  met  a  good  deal.  Perhaps  there  was  a  time 
when  he  might.  But  he  didn't,  and  it's  all  over  now. 
Besides,  I  never  cared  for  him  in  that  way.  He  was  too 
susceptible.  And  then,  fancy  being  touched  by  that 
hand." 

"  He's  only  lost  a  joint  of  one  finger." 

"  I  know.     But  it's  the  idea." 

"  He  lost  it  in  saving  a  man's  life." 

"  How  funny  you  are  to-night,  Dora,  dear.  Of 
course,  ask  him.  I  hope  he'll  have  grown  a  moustache. 
His  mouth  spoils  him." 

The  subject  was  dropped;  Dora  wrote  the  invitation. 
Rhoda  shrank  into  herself.  She  stared  into  the  fire, 
stroking  her  knee,  thinking  of  the  susceptible  sailor. 
Dora  wrote  other  letters.  Sometimes  she  paused  in  her 
writing  to  ask  a  question  or  to  look  at  her  friend.  When 
she  had  finished  writing,  she  went  to  Rhoda  and  put  her 
hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

."  What  is  it,  Roddy  ?    Tired  ?  " 

"  I'm  just  thinking,  dear." 

"  Thinking  of  Colin  Maunsel  ?  " 

"  No.  I  was  thinking  of  Lionel.  He  ought  to  have 
come  to-night." 

"  Perhaps  he'll  come  to-morrow." 

"  Don't  touch  me,  please.  I'm  sorry.  But  my 
nerves  are  all  wrong.  I  wish  he'd  come  to-night." 

"Lonely,  Roddy?" 

"  There  must  be  something  wrong  with  me.  I'm  all 
on  edge  to-night.  Do  you  think  men  ever  understand 
women?  " 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          277 

"  No.  Not  as  we  understand.  Men  learn  us  by 
heart  sometimes." 

"  Ah.     That's  not  the  same  thing." 

"  What  is  troubling  you  to-night  ?  " 

"  It  is  so  humiliating  to  realise." 

"  Oh,  of  course  we're  only  animals.  But  we're 
decadents.  It  oughtn't  to  trouble  us." 

"  It  seems  to  me  to  be  the  one  thing  that  ought  to 
trouble  us." 

"Head  bad,  Roddy?" 

"  No.  One  would  think  that  love  might  ...  I  wish 
you  wouldn't  call  me  Roddy." 

"  Dear  sweet,  won't  you  tell  me?  " 

"  It's  all  so  horribly  unfair.  Oh,  if  I  could  take  this 
body  and  fling  it  into  the  nearest  pond.  Do  you  not 
get  that  loathing?" 

"  I  think  I  see  what  you  mean.  No.  It  all  seems 
too  comic."  She  stroked  her  cheek  meditatively. 
"  After  all,  dear,  being  understood.  .  .  .  There's  an 
implication  of  contempt.  If  men  understood,  we'd  be 
popped  into  harems.  We  and  our  little  ways." 

"  Then  .  .  .  Oh,  I  can't  bear  you  sometimes,  Dora. 
Where  else  do  they  pop  us,  as  it  is  ?" 

"  You  know,  dear,  I  don't  hold  any  special  brief  for 
women.  People  in  this  world  get  what  they're  deter- 
mined to  have.  We  women  have  been  determined  to 
be  rather  rabbits.  Men  despise  us,  really,  and  all  the 
more  because  we  sometimes  hypnotise  them." 

"  Yes.  They  do  despise  us.  They  despise  us  down 
to  the  bone.  You  don't  know  how  they  despise  us. 
They  make  us  feel  that  we  are  beasts  in  a  stable." 

"  Oh,  only  beasts  do  that.  And  even  so,  women 
often  are  beasts.  Men  don't  fall  in  love  with  women, 
or  try  to  kiss  them  and  the  rest  of  it,  without  pro- 
vocation. Men  are  poor  gunpowdery  things.  It  must 
be  a  horrible  nuisance  to  them.  If  women  will  play 


278          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

with  fire  near  them,  what  more  can  the  women 
expect?" 

"  That  isn't  my  quarrel  with  men.  My  quarrel  is  that 
one  point  of  view  is  at  least  as  valuable  as  another." 

"  So  it  is,  dear.     But  it  is  not  always  so  workable." 

"  Why  must  it  be  always  the  man's  point  of  view  that 
triumphs  ?  " 

"  In  the  end  it  doesn't.  The  human  being's  point  of 
view  triumphs." 

"  Well.  I  have  my  own  ideal  of  the  human  being, 
and  of  his  relationships."  Dora's  face  expressed  sym- 
pathy; she  waited  to  hear  more,  thinking  that  any 
mark  of  sympathy,  a  touch  or  kiss,  would  only  make 
the  nerves  more  fretful. 

"  I  know,  dear,"  she  said.  She  was  puzzled.  In 
what  strange  fields  of  the  mind  was  her  friend  straying? 
Three  months  before  they  had  shared  life  like  fellow- 
feasters,  now  between  them  there  was  this  veil  of  an 
experience  not  shared. 

"  If  I  am  worth  anything  at  all  as  a  human  being," 
Rhoda  said,  "  I  am  not  going  to  accept  valuation  as  an 
animal." 

"  Dear.     Is  he  ...   ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't,"  Rhoda  said,  with  a  little  shudder.  She 
stood,  leaning  on  the  mantelpiece,  staring  down  into  the 
embers.  "  After  all,  it's  their  nature."  She  was  silent; 
her  neck  and  face  flamed.  She  threw  back  her  head 
with  a  gesture  of  ending  it.  "  One  lives  in  a  fool's 
paradise,"  she  said.  "  And  there's  this  horror  all  round 
us.  Oh!  Oh!  How  beastly  life  is."  She  walked  to 
the  little  side-table  where  the  bedroom  candles  stood. 

"What  day  did  you  ask  Colin  Maunsel  for?"  she 
asked. 

"  Wednesday  next  week,  to  lunch.  I  thought,  if  he 
would  motor  us  over  to  the  Leintwardine's  it  would  save 
my  ordering  the  fly." 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          279 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  see  Colin.  I'm  going 
to  bed." 

"  Shall  I  come  in  to  read  to  you  ?  " 

"  No.  Not  to-night.  I  want  to  be  alone.  I  want  to 
think  things  out." 

"  Then  good-night,  dear.  I  wish  I  could  help.  May 
I  kiss?" 

Rhoda  leaned  a  callous  cheek  and  took  her  candle. 
She  walked  slowly,  holding  her  dress  to  her,  as  though 
dreading  a  touch,  any  touch.  At  the  head  of  the  stairs 
she  turned  to  look  down  upon  her  friend.  Her  face 
was  a  white  mask. 

"  Rhoda." 

"  Yes." 

"  If  Lionel  should  come  to-morrow  ..." 

"  Sufficient  unto  the  day.  Good-night."  Her  door 
shut  behind  her.  Dora  heard  the  click  of  the  lock. 
Stealing  out  into  the  garden,  long  afterwards,  to  see  the 
stars,  Dora  saw  the  light  still  burning  in  the  bedroom. 
It  burned  there  till  it  burned  itself  out.  Rhoda,  lying 
in  bed,  with  her  knees  drawn  up,  stared  straight  in  front 
of  her,  shrinking  from  the  mental  image  which  obtruded 
itself  time  and  time  again.  Dread  of  contamination 
made  her  icy  cold.  She  shivered  and  shuddered.  Her 
thought,  not  yet  defined  into  words,  was  "  Lionel  may 
be  here  to-morrow  night.  And  men  are  so  horribly 
strong." 

Colin  Maunsel  drove  over  from  Pewcester  on  the 
Wednesday.  Rhoda  dressed  with  unusual  care  for  him. 
Remembering  a  remark  of  his,  that  the  only  well-dressed 
women  in  Europe  and  America  are  the  Spanish  women 
who  still  wear  the  black  mantilla,  she  dressed  in  a  black 
silk.  /  Black  makes  every  woman  look  well  dressed  and 
every  fashion  beautiful.,>It  took  from  Rhoda  every 
appearance  of  being  newly-married.  Swimming  in  to 
the  room  to  greet  Colin  Maunsel,  she  looked  liker  a 


280          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

young  widow  than  a  bride.  She  was  still  a  little  pale 
from  her  illness.  Her  paleness,  emphasised  by  the 
black,  made  her  face  "  interesting."  She  looked  un- 
happy. There  is  no  son  of  Adam  on  earth  who  will  not 
endeavour  to  comfort  a  woman  who  looks  unhappy,  if 
she  be  beautiful  enough  to  give  the  endeavour  point. 
The  moment  was  a  dangerous  one  for  Rhoda  and  for 
the  captain.  Man  or  woman  returns  to  the  first  love 
in  the  day  of  dissatisfaction  with  the  second.  Though 
neither  of  them  knew  this,  he  divined  that  she  saw  him 
now  with  a  surer  standard  of  comparison,  and  with  a 
greater  feeling  of  safety.  He  could  speak  now,  she 
could  listen.  If  life  were  not  all  roses,  there  was  the 
subtle  bond  of  an  old  affection  between  them,  she  could 
confide.  Tea  fillips  the  wit,  twilight  softens  beauty, 
proximity  disposes  the  manly  soul  to  sentiment.  To 
tea,  twilight,  and  proximity  were  added  a  vie  manque 
and  a  beautiful  woman  in  rebellion.  The  sentimental 
chess-board  was  set.  The  players  only  waited  for  that 
lonely  half  hour  in  the  dusk,  when  the  tale,  however 
silly,  melts,  to  begin  their  game.  Sentiment  is  a  popular 
game  in  sedentary  societies  too  stupid  to  produce 
satirists.  Everybody  plays  it  or  has  played  it.  Though 
it  invariably  ends  in  stalemate,  it  is  sufficiently  wasteful 
of  human  emotion  to  be  tragical.  In  its  effects  it  is, 
perhaps,  the  most  tragical  thing  in  modern  life.  It  all 
comes  from  living  in  cities.  Women  over-dress,  and 
the  men  over-eat,  because  there  is  nothing  else  to  do. 
When  they  meet  together,  nature's  designs  concerning 
them  are  ignored,  while  the  one  hints  and  the  other 
whispers.  The  sweet  silly  souls  have  the  knack  of  bring- 
ing death  to  every  real  soul  near  them. 

Colin  was  bright  and  sympathetic.  Rhoda  sparkled 
to  him  recklessly,  fell  silent,  and  was  again  reckless. 

Dora  was  troubled.  She  saw  that  the  meeting  might 
be  dangerous.  She  regretted  that  she  had  asked  the 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          281 

old  love.  "  Colin  Maunsel  is  all  very  well/*  she  thought, 
"  but^ men  are  men."  She  gave  no  chance  for  the 
beginning  of  the  game.  She  talked  to  Colin  about  the 
Heseltines'  flat,  about  the  Heseltines'  marriage,  about 
their  work  together.  She  suggested  a  perfect  marriage. 
"  Women  are  liars,"  she  thought.  "  But  then,  it  doesn't 
count,  to  a  man." 

They  were  sitting  over  the  fire,  talking,  when  the 
maid,  coming  in,  asked  her  to  step  outside  for  a  moment 
as  some  one  wished  to  speak  to  her.  On  going  out,  she 
found  that  the  village  dressmaker  had  called  to  see  her 
about  a  walking  skirt.  Dora  was  puzzled. 

"  You  were  to  come  to-morrow  evening,  not  to-night," 
she  said.  "Didn't  Mrs.  Heseltine  tell  you?  I  shan't 
have  the  patterns  till  to-morrow." 

"I'm  sorry,  miss,"  the  woman  said,  "  but  the  lady 
said  to  come  to-night." 

She  dismissed  the  woman,  saying  that  the  lady  had 
made  a  mistake.  She  stood  still  for  an  instant,  in  the 
passage,  knitting  her  brows.  Rhoda  had  taken  the 
message  that  morning.  How  had  she  made  the  mistake  ? 
She  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  Rhoda  had  wilfully 
bungled  the  message,  so  that  the  woman  might  call 
while  Colin  was  with  them.  It  looked  as  though  Rhoda 
had  planned  to  get  her  out  of  the  room  so  that  in  her 
friend's  absence  she  might  be  for  a  few  moments  alone 
with  Colin.  Instinct  told  her  that  if  Colin  had  any- 
thing to  say  to  Rhoda  an  instant's  chance  would  be  a 
stronger  incentive  to  speech  than  an  hour's  opportunity. 
When  she  re-entered  the  room  she  was  full  of  suspicion. 

She  entered  upon  one  of  these  intolerable  situations 
which  explain  themselves  to  a  divining  soul  without 
evidence  from  the  senses.  Rhoda  was  sitting  on  the 
sofa,  staring  into  the  fire,  with  blood  in  her  cheeks. 
Maunsel  with  his  back  to  her  was  staring  at  a  picture 
on  the  wall.  They  were  silent,  but  the  air  was  tense. 


282          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

There  was  a  memory  in  the  air,  still  eloquent  to  the 
spirit,  of  a  ringing  note  that  had  been  struck  there. 
Dora  meant  to  punish  them  to  the  full.  She  went 
silently  to  her  bureau,  and  searched  in  a  pigeon  hole  for 
a  paper.  Both  figures  writhed  a  little  under  the  silence. 
She  stopped  her  searching  to  watch  Maunsel's  back. 
There  was  a  grim  pleasure  in  seeing  his  neck  redden. 

"  This  is  rather  a  jolly  print,"  said  Maunsel  in  a 
strange  voice.  It  is  unfortunate,  sometimes,  that  men 
have  little  practice  in  lying  after  they  leave  school. 
There  was  a  pause. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rhoda,  swallowing. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dora.     "  Lionel  used  to  admire  it." 

Maunsel's  motor  car  was  announced  a  minute  later. 
Dora  wished  him  good-bye.  Her  eyes  stayed  for  a 
moment  on  the  tracks  of  his  tyres  in  the  dust.  Her 
thought  was  that  Rhoda  would  hear  from  him  by  the 
morning  post.  Her  second  thought  was  that  Rhoda 
should  not  walk  alone  till  Lionel  came  to  Pudsey  to 
take  her  back  to  London. 

"  How  beautiful  the  Pewcester  road  is,  now  the  oaks 
are  turning,"  Rhoda  said,  jangling  this  second  thought. 
"  Do  you  know  Fair  Tree  ?  Isn't  it  a  wonderful  view 
from  there?" 

A  woman  scatters  such  hints  hardly  daring  to  hope 
that  the  man  may  have  the  wit  to  perceive. 

"  I'll  look  out  for  Fair  Tree,"  Maunsel  said,  glancing 
down  at  his  map.  Dora  wished  that  Lionel  were  there. 
She  was  glad  that  she  had  no  engagements  till  Friday 
afternoon,  when  she  had  promised  to  go  to  the  Fusters. 
She  thought  that  she  might  cancel  that  engagement. 
She  stood  at  the  gate  with  Rhoda  till  the  car  had  turned 
the  corner.  Rhoda's  face  was  a  mask  again.  They 
walked  back,  arm-in-arm,  to  the  sitting-room.  They 
sat  down,  woman-fashion,  to  criticise  their  guest.  Dora 
pricked  her  sharply  to  see  if  she  could  make  her  wince. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          283 

"  Colin  wants  a  wife,"  she  said.  "  Why  doesn't  he 
marry  Polly  Hamlin  ?  A  rich  bachelor  in  a  little  cathe- 
dral town!  It  isn't  fair  on  the  mothers.  He  looks 
rather  gate  already.  Who  could  we  marry  him  to  ?  " 

"  Nelly  Swinburne  would  have  suited  him,  if  she  had 
lived/ '  said  Rhoda,  sadly,  looking  into  the  fire.  "  What 
beautiful  hair  Nelly  had.  All  the  beautiful  people  seem 
to  die  or  get  married." 

"  He  hasn't  made  you  sad,  Rhoda?  " 

"Who?  Colin?  No.  But  I'm  over-tired.  It  all 
seems  so  hopeless." 

"  Lionel  will  be  here  on  Saturday."  Rhoda  shivered 
slightly,  and  stretched  a  hand  to  the  blaze. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  she  said,  "  that  a  little  real  life 
withers  in  us  whenever  we  add  a  new  refinement." 

"  Curious,"  Dora  said.  "  I  was  thinking  just  the 
same.  I  was  thinking  how  awfully  dead  Colin's  face 
looks  now  that  he's  grown  that  horrible  moustache." 

Thursday  passed  without  incident.  Rhoda  expressed 
no  wish  to  go  out  upon  the  Pewcester  Road.  Dora 
could  not  be  certain  that  any  letter  had  come  from 
Colin.  She  surmised  it.  She  suspected  that  Rhoda 
had  replied  to  it;  but  Rhoda's  fair  face  was  smooth, 
her  manner  natural,  their  intimacy  apparently  perfect. 
Dora's  thoughts  were  given  to  the  framing  of  an  excuse 
for  staying  at  home  on  Friday  instead  of  going  to 
the  Fusters.  She  feared  to  give  that  opportunity. 
Marriage,  as  she  could  see,  has  sandy  tracts;  senti- 
ment promises  pleasant  waters.  She  realised  the 
romantic  possibilities  of  a  motor  car.  A  line  from  a 
Shakespeare  play  rang  in  her  head:  ''Come  o'er  the 
bourne,  Bessy,  to  me."  The  prospect  of  upsetting 
Mr.  Colin's  plans  was  pleasant  to  her. 

On  Friday,  Rhoda's  manner  towards  her  was  more 
warmly  affectionate  than  it  had  been  since  the  marriage. 
She  was  very  tender  and  sweet,  like  a  little  sister  asking 


284          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

to  be  forgiven.  Dora  had  wanted  that;  it  was  very 
dear  to  her.  She  felt  that  the  veil  had  at  last  been 
removed  from  between  them.  She  felt  again  the 
spiritual  nearness  which  had  made  the  old  companion- 
ship so  delightful.  Caressing  her,  Rhoda  asked  if  she, 
too,  might  come  to  the  Fusters  that  afternoon. 

"  How  dear  of  you,"  Dora  said.  "  That  will  be 
lovely."  With  a  sudden  impulse  Rhoda  leaned  her 
cheek;  the  friends  kissed. 

Driving  in  the  pony-cart  to  the  Fusters,  Dora  made 
a  big  round,  so  as  to  cross  the  Pewcester  road  at  Fair 
Tree.  They  saw  the  usual  miracle  of  an  English 
October.  The  blue  of  the  sky  was  chill  above  the  apple- 
orchards.  The  apples  were  full  of  the  sweetness  and 
colour  of  the  summer.  They  were  red  and  sweet  among 
the  apple-leaves;  they  were  golden  in  the  light  against 
branches  roughened  by  lichens.  Down  below  in  the 
valley  the  farms  were  peaceful.  Looking  at  them, 
Rhoda  remembered  the  time  when  she  had  thought 
that  the  oast-houses  were  witches  in  white,  peaked 
caps. 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,"  she  said. 

"  Pity  we  aren't  more  a  part  of  it,"  Dora  answered. 
"  We  seem  such  beastly  excrescences."  Her  eye  roved 
the  road  for  the  tracks  of  a  motor  car.  Tracks  were 
there;  but  she  could  not  say  in  which  direction  the  car 
that  made  them  had  been  moving. 

"  We'll  go  by  the  lane,  if  you  don't  mind,"  she  said. 
"  If  Noggin  meets  a  motor  car  he  gets  over  the  hedge. 
Your  nerves  aren't  equal  to  that." 

"  You're  rather  a  dear  person,"  said  Rhoda.  "  You 
take  such  care  of  me." 

When  they  got  back  to  the  cottage  they  found  the 
cards  of  Colin  Maunsel  and  of  his  sister,  Mrs.  Harcourt. 
On  one  of  the  cards  was  a  note  in  pencil.  "  Such  a 
lovely  day.  Called  to  take  you  for  a  ride."  Rhoda 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          285 

put  down  the  card.  Her  face  was  impassive.  She 
coloured  a  little  under  Dora's  gaze. 

"  Give  me  the  card/'  she  said.  Taking  it,  she  read 
it  through  again  and  dropped  it  thoughtfully  into  the 
fire.  She  watched  it  burn.  Dora,  coming  close  to  her, 
buried  her  face  in  some  chrysanthemums,  the  spoils  of 
the  visit  to  the  Fusters.  She  peered  at  Rhoda  through 
the  long,  flopping  brown  and  white  petals. 

"  You  would  look  rather  sweet  in  black,  with  white 
chrysanthemums/'  she  said. 

"  I'm  horrid.  I  could  never  look  sweet.  I'm  de- 
graded," Rhoda  answered. 

"  You're  a  very  dear  person,  and  I  love  you  and  love 
you,"  said  Dora,  "  and  you're  going  to  rest  before  dinner, 
while  I  read  to  you."  The  resulting  kiss  seemed  to  her 
to  be  intended  for  the  writer  of  the  note  upon  the  card. 

Lionel  did  not  come  till  one  o'clock  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing. He  came  by  the  last  train  to  Drowcester,  and 
drove  from  there  in  a  motor  car.  Rhoda,  lying  awake, 
heard  him  enter  the  house,  and  creep  upstairs  to  his 
little  room  near  the  bath-room.  He  had  come.  The 
strain  was  to  begin  again.  She  sat  up,  wondering  what 
the  morrow  might  hold.  Her  thought  was,  "  So  he  is 
here.  I  shall  have  to  meet  him."  He  seemed  stranger 
to  her  than  Colin  Maunsel.  Colin  was  nearer  to  her  in 
her  present  mood;  but  Colin  made  her  a  little  afraid. 
She  had  run  away  from  Colin.  Colin's  last  letter  lay 
on  her  heart;  yet  she  was  afraid.  Fear  of  she  knew  not 
what  made  her  thought  almost  tender  of  Lionel.  Fall- 
ing asleep,  she  slept  brokenly  till  it  was  time  to  rise. 
When  the  maid  called  her,  she  sat  up  to  drink  her  tea, 
wondering  why  the  morning  should  bring  such  distaste 
for  life.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass,  with  haggard 
eyes. 

"  I  do  look  a  wreck,"  she  muttered.  "  Shall  I  stay 
in  bed  and  see  him  here  ?  If  I  do  that,  there's  no  getting 


286          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

away  from  him.  I'll  go  down."  She  dressed  slowly, 
with  many  pauses  before  the  mirror.  "  I'll  do  my  hair 
a  la  Grecque"  she  muttered,  with  her  lips  full  of  hair 
pins.  "  He  used  to  like  that.  Or  no.  I  don't  want 
to  be  liked.  I  want  to  be  the  star  still.  I  won't  be 
dragged  to  earth."  She  remembered  a  little  French 
lady  whom  she  had  met  at  a  theatre.  A  little,  plain 
French  lady,  quite  plain,  with  not  even  one  good  feature, 
but  with  a  look  of  intelligence  and  a  way  of  doing  the 
hair  It  la  Berenice  that  made  her  almost  lovely.  Re- 
membering her,  Rhoda  patted  and  brushed  her  hair  a  la 
Berenice.  It  did  not  suit  her  very  well.  It  made  her 
face  too  long.  "  She  was  a  clever  little  thing,"  Rhoda 
said  to  herself,  thinking  of  the  lady.  Thinking  this, 
she  stayed  for  a  long  time  motionless  before  the  mirror. 
There  was  something  in  that  French  woman,  a  spark,  or 
salt.  She  was  always  a  zest  to  the  mind,  ever  delight- 
ful. "  I  wish  I  were  like  that,"  she  said.  "  Lionel's 
so  horribly  clever,  I  can't  follow  him.  I'm  not  in- 
terested in  science  and  social  reform.  I  can't  stand  his 
clever  friends.  They're  very  clever,  I  suppose,  but  they 
talk  like  Radicals.  They  aren't  like  the  men  I've  been 
accustomed  to.  And  the  women!  If  I  were  clever  I 
might  be  a  helpmeet  to  him.  But  Providence  seems  to 
have  taken  care  of  that.  And  he  doesn't  want  it.  He 
never  consults  me  about  anything.  Besides,  he  ought 
to  study  my  point  of  view.  I  want  to  be  petted  and 
made  much  of.  We  ought  to  have  a  car,  and  go  about, 
and  see  nice  people."  In  spite  of  this  conclusion  she 
was  sad  when  she  left  her  mirror.  "  I'm  not  clever 
enough,"  she  said.  She  had  a  bitter  wish  to  defend  her 
upbringing.  "  All  the  same,  I  am  worth  considering. 
Other  men  have  liked  to  talk  to  me.  I've  been  brought 
up  to  a  certain  kind  of  life.  It  may  not  be  very  intel- 
lectual; but  it  is  the  only  life  worth  having.  The  life 
of  rich,  leisured  men  and  women,  with  stakes  in  the 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          287 

country  and  an  interest  in  the  poor.  It  isn't  our 
business  to  be  intellectual.  Intellect  is  one  of  the 
things  done  for  our  amusement.  And  all  this  talk  of 
the  poor  is  only  jealousy,  because  they  haven't  got  our 
wealth.  If  all  the  money  in  England  were  equally 
divided  at  noon  it  would  have  to  be  re-divided  at  five 
minutes  past.  How  could  any  of  Lionel's  friends 
pretend  to  know  about  governing?  They  had  not  an 
estate  between  them.  They  were  trying  to  educate 
the  poor  above  their  station,  and  the  consequence  of 
that  would  be  revolution."  She  remembered  telling 
Lionel  the  story  of  one  of  her  friends,  who  had  been 
trying  to  get  a  housemaid.  "  A  very  nice  girl  came, 
and  everything  seemed  satisfactory.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  one  of  the  cowmen  in  a  farm  in  the  next 
village.  She  was  engaged,  and  as  she  was  going  out  of 
the  room  she  asked  if  she  might  practise  on  the  piano  in 
the  school-room  sometimes,  as  '  she  wouldn't  like  to 
give  up  her  music.' '  Lionel  had  not  laughed  at  the 
story.  He  had  fixed  her  with  his  doctor's  eye,  and 
asked  where  the  girl  lived.  He  wanted  her  to  engage 
the  girl  as  housemaid. 

She  went  downstairs  leisurely,  on  tip-toe,  listening 
for  Dora's  voice.  She  heard  no  sound  of  Dora.  Lionel 
at  breakfast  within  was  beheading  an  egg.  She  wanted 
the  moral  support  of  Dora.  Not  finding  her  in  the  sitting- 
room,  she  peeped  into  the  kitchen,  where  the  maid  told 
her  that  Miss  Dora  had  gone  to  early  service  with  intent 
to  breakfast  afterwards  at  the  Rectory.  Dora's  tact 
was  generally  put  on  with  a  trowel;  so  here.  As  there 
was  no  chance  of  support,  Rhoda  had  to  venture  alone. 
She  pushed  into  the  little  dining-room  to  greet  her 
husband. 


CHAPTER  V 

SHE  could  not  move  from  the  door  towards  him.  He 
felt  her  disinclination  and  respected  it.  He  had  thought 
of  her  as  a  pathological  condition  and  had  come  to  an 
opinion  about  her.  He  took  her  hands  in  his. 

"  Well,  dear  wife.  And  how  are  you?  You're  look- 
ing much  better.  Come  and  have  your  tea."  He  led 
her  to  a  place  near  the  fire;  the  table  was  between  them. 

"  I  don't  feel  much  better/'  she  said.  "  But  don't 
let's  talk  of  body." 

"  Dora's  gone  to  early  service,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  of  the  soul,  either.  How  are 
you?  How  is  your  work?  When  will  you  publish?  " 

"  I  shall  publish  in  ten  days  from  now." 

"And  your  new  scheme  —  the  Brigade  of  News- 
boys— is  that  all  prepared?  " 

"  That  is  prepared." 

"  How  many  boys  have  you?  " 

"  Over  four  hundred." 

"  Really?     Half  a  battalion.     In  uniform?  " 

"  White,  with  green  facings.  Yes.  They  are  rather 
a  problem  to  drill." 

"  And  they  will  sell  your  papers  for  you  when  they 
are  printed?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  exciting.     Do  you  think  it  will  succeed?" 

"  God  knows,"  he  answered,  a  little  tartly.  He  had 
put  so  much  of  himself  into  the  work  that  a  word  of 
belief  in  him,  however  insincere,  would  have  cheered 
his  heart.  She  resented  his  tone;  she  looked  at  him 
without  speaking. 

288 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          289 

"  You'll  have  to  have  a  new  frock  for  the  opening/1 
he  said.  "  Or  shall  it  be  a  jewel ?  " 

"  Oh,  must  I?  "  she  asked.  "  I'm  not  strong  enough 
to  go  to  any  ceremony.  I  can't  give  a  reception. 
Surely,  there's  no  need  for  any  reception?  Or  must 
you  have  one?  Couldn't  you  do  it?  " 

"  Well.  I'll  do  it,"  he~  said.  He  was  rather  blank 
about  it. 

After  breakfast  they  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  sitting- 
room.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  a  shudder  lest  he 
should  touch  her.  Her  good  will  towards  him  was 
gone.  She  sat  coldly  critical,  half  contemptuous.  She 
was  a  little  angry  at  the  tartness  of  his  "  God  knows," 
and  at  his  wish  that  she  should  receive  guests  for  him. 
"  I  suppose  his  typist  and  his  writers,"  she  muttered, 
scanning  his  face  for  further  faults.  He  looked  very 
much  worn.  When  his  face  was  white  from  fatigue  one 
noticed  the  redness  of  his  eyes.  She  noticed  it  now, 
with  shrinking.  She  did  not  like  his  neck.  He  wore 
a  low  collar  which  exposed  it  a  good  deal.  She  resented 
the  low  collar.  She  resented  his  cufHess,  easy  flannel 
shirt.  "  II  faut  suffrir  pour  etre  belle  "  was  one  of  her 
maxims.  None  of  the  men  of  her  set  wore  such  things. 
She  was  wilfully  silent;  he,  too,  was  silent;  she  tapped 
with  her  foot. 

"  Rhoda,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you  think  about  coming 
to  town  with  me  to-night?  " 

"  What  have  you  decided?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  decide.  London's  a  nervous  place. 
Do  you  feel  that  you  are  strong  enough?  " 

11 1  am  quite  well,  now." 

"  You  will  come,  then?  " 

"  Had  you  rather  I  did  not  ?  " 

"  No,  I  would  like  you  with  me.  I  want  to  have 
you  by  me,  to  look  after.  I'm  lonely,  and  I  miss 
you." 


290         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  I'm  afraid  of  interfering  with  your  work/'  she  said. 

"  The  work  will  be  very  little  after  the  beginning.  I 
can  leave  Carnlow  in  charge.  We  can  go  away.  We've 
not  had  our  honeymoon  yet." 

"  No/'  she  said,  in  a  strange  voice.     "  Not  yet." 

"  Where  shall  we  go,  Rhoda?     Italy  or  Spain?  " 

"  I  don't  much  care  where  we  go.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  this  morning?  It's  a  pity  to  waste  this 
sun.  Won't  you  go  for  a  walk  ?  You  look  rather  worn. 
A  walk  would  do  you  good." 

"Will  you  come?" 

"  I  never  walk  in  the  morning." 

He  crossed  over  to  her.  He  noticed  that  she  shrank 
from  him,  expecting  him  to  sit  beside  her.  He  pulled 
up  a  chair  and  sat  down. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"  Rhoda,"  he  answered.  "  You  don't  want  to  come 
away  with  me." 

"Have  I  said  so?" 

"  Women  never  say  what  they  want.  They  bring  it 
about." 

"  That  may  be  true.  But  you  have  no  cause  to 
doubt  me." 

"  My  dear  girl,  it  isn't  a  question  of  doubt.  It's  a 
case  of  ...  Dear,  we  sat  in  this  room  only  a  few  weeks 
ago,  like  lovers.  What  has  come  to  you?  Tell  me 
what  you  are  feeling?  " 

"  I've  been  ill,  as  you  know.  My  nerves  aren't  quite 
under  control.  I  can't  bring  myself  to  face.  I'm  .  .  . 
I  find  it  difficult,  since  my  illness,  to  face  things  which  I 
never  really  realised  before  it.  You  mustn't  blame  me 
altogether.  I  think  women  don't  play  quite  fair  with 
girls;  perhaps  men  don't." 

He  thought  this  over,  searching  her  face.  "  No,"  he 
said.  "  I  ought  to  have  talked  this  out  with  you.  I 
wish  I  had.  You  have  been  brooding." 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          291 

She  smiled  the  thin  smile  of  contempt.  "  Men  are 
wonderful/'  she  said.  "  They  see  things  so." 

He  thought  for  a  full  minute;  the  clock  ticked; 
Rhoda  drew  a  breath  of  boredom. 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  wild  beast,  Rhoda?  " 

"  Men  have  a  wild  beast  whether  they  look  it  or  not." 

"  That  thought  came  from  a  professional  temptress/' 

"  It's  true/' 

"  Many  women  try  to  make  it  so.  But  seductive 
ladies  are  pretty  rotten  evidence.  How  long  have  you 
been  going  in  fear  and  trembling?  " 

"  Those  are  not  the  words  to  use.  I  can  defend 
myself.  It's  the  humiliation  of  having  to  do  so." 

"  Manage  blanc"  Rhoda  leaned  on  the  mantelpiece, 
looking  down. 

"  There  are  pig-styes  outside." 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  But  pigs  haven't  our  incentive  to 
life." 

"Life!" 

"  Yes.  Life.  You've  lived  in  a  drawing-room  all 
your  days.  The  natural  world  must  look  a  little  queer." 

"I'm  complaining  of  its  beastliness." 

"  So  I  gather.     On  what  grounds?  " 

"  My  own  sense  of  ...  Oh,  Lionel  .  .  .  my  own 
sanctity." 

"  I  don't  think  you  can  complain  that  I've  been  un- 
mindful of  that."  L 

"  You've  never  understood  my  point  of  view.  You've 
said  things." 

"  My  dear  girl.  Sexual  irreverence  is  beastly.  But 
sexual  sentimentality!  Do  you  expect  me  to  talk  as 
though  the  mystery  that  makes  life  is  indecent  ?  Lord 
God,  you  women  deserve  all  you  get." 

"  Kindly  remember,  Lionel,  that  I  am  a  lady/ 

"  You  went  to  an  expensive  school,  where  you  learned 
to  play  cricket  and  the  date  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  death. 


292          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Well.  I  suppose  I  shall  understand  these  English  some 
day/' 

"  I'm  not  inclined  to  listen  to  rudeness,  Lionel." 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  It's  not  rudeness.  It's  only 
wonder.  Let  us  get  this  thing  straight."  He  stared 
into  the  fire  for  a  while,  with  little  shrewd  glances  at 
Rhoda's  face. 

"  I  believe  in  man,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  believe  in 
man  more  than  I  believe  in  any  thing  he  has  invented. 
'  Before  him  goes  the  pestilence,  and  burning  coals  go 
forth  at  his  feet  .  .  .  and  the  everlasting  mountains 
are  scattered,  the  perpetual  hills  do  bow.'  I've  always 
thought  that." 

"  Yes?  "she  said,  idly. 

"  Thinking  that,  one  gets  afraid  of  letting  in  the 
enemy.  If  man  is  so  much  more  than  an  animal,  he 
must  be  it  all  through,  or  else  you  get  a  monster.  That 
is  my  point.  Do  you  understand?  " 

"  Yes." 

L  "  I've  thought  of  this  sex-business.  Men  and  women 
have  played  the  devil  with  it,  as  they  always  do  with 
every  charity  in  the  world.  I  made  up  my  mind  that 
as  far  as  I'm  concerned  it  will  stay  as  Nature  meant  it. 
Nature  means  it  to  be  the  perfectly  normal  expression 
of  a  temporary,  strictly  seasonal  mood,  lasting,  perhaps, 
for  two  or  three  weeks  in  each  autumn."  He  stopped. 
He  looked  gravely  at  her,  waiting  for  her  reply.  "  That 
is  my  attitude,"  he  said. 

"  You  think  it  is  only  that,"  she  said,  flushing.  "  It 
is  more  than  that." 

"  Yes.  It's  more  than  that,"  he  said.  "  I've  always 
longed  for  children."  She  was  silent,  with  a  burning, 
drooped  face.  He  watched  her.  His  face  was  full  of 
tenderness.  She  found  it  hard  to  breathe. 

"  Do  you  dread  children,  Rhoda?  "  She  shook  her 
head,  shutting  her  eyes. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          293 

"  Dread  having  them?  We  should  go  through  it 
together."  She  shook  her  head  again.  It  was  hard  for 
her  to  speak. 

"  That  is  something/'  she  murmured,  breathing 
deeply.  "  Something  I'm  not  prepared  for." 

"  I  understand/'  he  said,  strangely  gentle.  "  Life's 
not  been  kind  to  you.  You  lost  your  mother  when  you 
were  a  child.  Children  who  are  misunderstood  always 
dread  life  later  on.  I  did,  till  I  was  in  India  that  time. 
Old  Sir  Patrick  taught  me.  We  stamped  out  Travan- 
core  ophthalmia.  I  was  his  dresser  and  he  did  the  work. 
It  was  like  Christ  '  making  the  blind  to  see,  Good  Lord.' 
That  is  what  man  is.  '  Before  him  goes  the  pestilence 
.  .  .  and  the  everlasting  mountains  are  scattered.'  A 
little  child  would  be  very  much  to  us,  Rhoda."  She 
shook  her  head  to  his  pleading.  "  I  can  imagine,"  she 
said.  "  But,  no.  It  is  something  against  my  nature. 
It  isn't  dread.  It's  horror." 

"  Looking  beyond  the  horror,  Rhoda.  Do  you  see 
nothing?  You  know,  perhaps,  that  without  children 
marriage  is  hard.  Gets  very  hard  later  in  life.  Child- 
less old  age.  We  ought  not  to  cramp  our  lives.  Child- 
less marriages.  I  don't  know.  Even  if  there  were  war, 
and  our  home  were  being  shelled  and  they  were  starving, 
children  would  make  life  less  of  a  doggery.  But  I  see 
your  point,  too." 

"If  I  were  to  consent,"  she  muttered,  speaking 
hoarsely,  in  a  whisper,  "  the  horror  would  be  in  me. 
The  child  would  not  have  a  chance.  My  thoughts 
would  be  killing  it  all  the  time." 

He  looked  out  of  the  window,  while  his  mind 
brooded  on  the  myriad  lives  stunted  by  the  nerves  of 
mothers. 

"  Well.  We  won't  talk  of  it,"  he  said,  sighing.  "  Poor 
old  Rhoda."  He  stared  out  of  the  window  again.  "  Bit 
of  a  frost  last  night,"  he  said.  "  There's  rime  on  the 


294         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

walk,  out  of  the  sun.  Your  Michaelmas  daisies  must 
have  been  a  show." 

"  Yes.     They  were  a  show." 

"  I  love  October,"  he  said.  "  '  Oh,  come,  October, 
with  a  good  blast/  I  love  the  cobwebs  and  the  frost. 
*  Misty,  bright  October/  One  doesn't  get  enough  out 
of  the  months  in  London.  They  have  special  signi- 
ficances which  we  fools  of  town-dwellers  ignore.  Town- 
dwellers  might  just  as  well  be  dead.  They  are  dead. 
The  trouble  is,  they  aren't  buried.  The  earth  has  a 
big  rhythm.  '  It  shall  bring  forth  new  fruit  according 
to  his  months,  and  the  fruit  thereof  shall  be  for  meat, 
and  the  leaf  thereof  for  medicine/  Deliver  me  from 
modern  philosophy  as  long  as  there's  a  Bible/' 

"  I  could  never  follow  the  Bible  in  what  we've  been 
discussing." 

"That?  You're  partly  right  in  that,  Rhoda.  It's 
a  crazy  business.  Or  we've  made  it  crazy.  I  some- 
times think  that  civilisation's  a  tumult  of  ingenious 
folly  devised  to  cover  the  initial  mistake.  Here  comes 
Dora,  in  a  dress  so  silly  that  she  can't  keep  warm 
without  a  fire  or  a  coat." 

He  went  for  a  lonely  walk  that  afternoon.  He  walked 
to  a  lonely  woodland,  through  which  the  brook  ran.  He 
sat  upon  a  stump  opposite  a  reach  where  the  water  slid 
past  a  tiny  cliff  of  sandstone.  Water-rats  passed  up 
and  down  unheeding.  His  mind  followed  the  run  of  the 
brook.  "  I  wish  I  had  its  purposelessness,  its  power, 
and  its  eternity,"  he  said.  "  How  very  unfruitful  it  is, 
for  a  thing  that  causes  all  fruit."  He  thought  of  Rhoda, 
and  of  their  talk  together.  "  She  doesn't  understand 
what  I'm  trying  to  do,"  he  muttered.  "  And  if  she 
did,  she  would  oppose  it."  Loyalty  kept  him  from 
making  crueller  charges;  but  under  other  images  his 
mind  attacked  the  conventional  feminine  mind.  The 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          295 

thought  of  children  had  been  much  with  him  during 
the  last  few  days.  Thought  of  a  boy  beside  him,  sail- 
ing boats  down  the  brook,  and  plugging  at  them  with  a 
catapult,  was  sharp  in  him.  "  Well.  It  is  not  to  be/1 
he  said,  starting  up.  His  own  wishes  prompted  him  to 
say  that  in  the  matter  of  Rhoda's  reluctance  it  was  not 
the  woman  speaking,  but  only  her  nerves.  Walking  on 
up-stream  he  rejected  this.  "  It  is  the  real  woman/' 
he  said.  "  Every  nerve  in  her  body  has  been  sharpened 
to  defend  the  idea  of  the  conventionally  correct."  The 
problem  became  more  difficult,  the  more  he  thought  of 
it.  "  Life  is  going  to  be  hard/'  he  said.  In  cases  like 
these  the  view  ahead  is  very  black.  Man  can  see  that 
there  is  no  way  out  but  death.  He  cannot  see  that  these 
troubles  are  resolved  by  an  adjustment.  Lionel,  look- 
ing ahead,  saw  an  endless  succession  of  conversations 
with  a  doll  about  the  superiority  of  waxwork.  Rhoda 
could  not  look  ahead.  She  looked  into  the  present. 
Not  liking  what  she  saw,  she  hurried  shivering,  to  her 
past,  calling  to  the  ghosts  to  save  her. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Snip  Snap  was  almost  ready  for  the  press.  Much  may 
be  done,  even  in  London,  in  six  months,  by  the  applica- 
tion of  energy.  Snip  Snap  was  no  small  task,  no  small 
achievement.  Lionel,  looking  at  his  office  staff,  or 
'drilling  companies  of  his  Brigade  in  what  had  once  been 
a  swimming  bath,  felt  that  something  had  been  done. 
The  paper  might  fail  of  success  from  one  cause  or 
another;  it  could  hardly  avoid  popularity.  The 
Brigade  was  a  living  fact,  visibly  creating  character 
under  his  hand. 

The  Brigade  at  that  time  numbered  four  hundred 
and  fifty  youths.  Since  then,  it  has  changed  and  in- 
creased. It  now  has  its  squad,  if  not  its  company,  in 
every  town  in  England.  The  bright  green  and  white 
uniform  is  well  known.  Less  well  known  is  the  excel- 
lent barrack-system  by  which  the  boys  are  fed,  housed, 
and  taught.  It  is  the  boast  of  its  officers,  that  a  Brigade 
boy  can  obtain  as  good  an  education  as  the  son  of  a 
peer.  Lionel  had  but  the  shadow  of  these  things  then. 

Two  days  before  the  opening  he  sat  in  his  office, 
thinking  of  his  staff.  By  opening  his  door  he  could  see 
them  at  their  work,  the  strange,  immortal  souls,  precious 
to  God.  He  had  a  staff  of  more  than  a  dozen  human 
beings.  Most  of  them  were  brands  from  the  burning. 
All  of  them  had  been  to  some  extent  waste  products, 
tossed  about  at  the  whim  of  a  pitiless  industrialism. 
He  looked  them  over,  wondering  if  any  nation  in  the 
world  had  been  so  careless  of  the  life  within  her,  so  blind 
to  the  holiness  of  this  flame  which  burns  for  so  short  an 
hour.  All  the  company  were  corn  ears  that  had  been 

296 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         297 

beaten  in  a  bag  "  to  knock  the  dust  off."  The  miracle 
was  that  any  corn  remained  in  the  ears ;  yet  there  it  was, 
ready  to  spring  green  and  ripen,  cause  "  for  the  shout- 
ing for  the  summer  fruits  and  joy  of  the  plentiful  field." 
They  had  all  been  wasted,  yet  in  spite  of  all  the  waste, 
they  were  good  still. 

There  was  his  serial  writer.  Lionel  had  found  him 
writing  a  romance  called  "  Rube  the  Ruthless  "  in  one 
of  the  hutches  of  the  Tombstone  Press.  He  said  that 
his  name  was  Antony  Seymour.  He  was  a  dim,  nervous 
man,  with  clammy  hands.  Lionel  was  attracted  by 
him.  He  could  not  persuade  him  to  talk.  There  was 
always  "  a  mystery  "  about  him.  He  came  out  of  the 
unknown,  with  a  cringing  manner.  His  nerves  were  all 
gone.  He  had  a  way  of  standing  still,  fumbling  with  a 
cap,  looking  at  the  floor,  whenever  anybody  spoke  to 
him.  If  one  spoke  to  him  sharply  he  trembled.  He 
was  about  twenty-seven  years  old.  He  gave  one  the 
impression  that  he  had  "  done  something."  There  was 
no  hint  of  what  it  may  have  been.  It  was  hard  to  think 
of  that  shambling,  fumbling  figure  committing  a  crime 
of  passion,  seeing  red.  It  was  hard  to  think  of  him  in 
love.  He  came  in,  cringing  and  trembling,  answering 
"  Yes,  sir.  Yes,  sir,"  with  an  eagerness  which  gave 
each  affirmation  the  fervour  of  an  oath.  It  was  as 
though  he  said,  "  God,  yes,  sir,"  or  "  Yes,  sir.  I  take 
my  Bible  oath  of  it,"  or  "  For  God's  sake,  sir,  believe 
me.  It's  true,  s'elp  me,  sir.  Gor  blimey,  sir,  it's  true." 
Lionel  felt  that  at  some  time  or  other,  Antony  had 
spoken  in  that  strain,  unavailingly,  from  a  prisoner's 
dock.  Prison  would  account  for  the  rest.  Prison  kills  the 
fineness  in  a  man  so  that  the  weakness  in  him  may  rot. 
Lionel,  who  was,  in  many  ways,  quite  as  Ruthless  as 
Rube,  felt  for  the  man  a  pity  which  was  more  than  half 
anger  against  society.  He  thought  Antony  was  a 
gentle,  silly  creature  without  enough  blood  in  him  for 


298          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

any  respectable  sin.  "  A  superior  clerk,  I  suppose, 
caught  picking  the  pockets  in  the  overcoats  of  the  other 
clerks.  Or  something  falsified.  The  wages  cheque, 
perhaps,  at  the  end  of  the  week.  Silly  juggins.  Blood 
to  the  head.  No  nerves  to  begin  with.  Fed,  probably, 
on  bread  and  cheap  tea.  Not  enough  jump  to  resist 
anything.  Ought  to  have  been  given  a  rest  cure  and 
proper  food.  Instead  of  which  they  comb  his  nerves 
to  a  frazzle  in  a  silent  cell.  Good  God.  It  would  turn 
a  Rural  Dean  into  an  Apache. "  Lionel  rather  liked  the 
creature ;  or  no,  he  did  not  like  the  creature.  He  liked 
the  feeling  that  the  creature  was  happy  with  him. 
Lionel  paid  him  thirty-five  shillings  a  week  to  write 
serials.  It  was  more  than  he  had  earned  in  the  back 
room  of  the  Tombstone  Press,  writing  continuations  to 
"  Rube  the  Ruthless."  He  wrote  better,  at  a  steady 
wage.  Lionel  rented  a  little  gas-heated  room  for  him 
close  to  the  main  office.  He  wrote  there.  The  quality 
of  his  work  ?  Well,  we  are  not  sensitive  to  that  kind  of 
thing  over  here.  Un-English,  all  that.  Esthetic. 

Lionel  knew  nothing  about  Antony;  never  learned 
of  his  past,  never  got  much  further  with  him.  Some- 
thing big  and  very  pitiless  had  gone  over  Antony,  and 
pressed  out  all  the  blood.  Like  all  who  have  been 
thoroughly  broken,  he  had  all  the  virtues  of  the  slave. 
He  was  punctual.  He  worked  without  driving.  He 
was  neat.  "  You've  been  held  in  tight  order,"  Lionel 
said  to  himself.  "  It's  got  right  into  you  and  hurt." 
He  did  not  know  where  Antony  lived.  He  followed 
once,  to  find  out.  He  tracked  him  to  the  side-door  of 
a  big  restaurant  near  Piccadilly  Circus.  Antony  dis- 
appeared within  the  door.  It  was  the  same  the  next 
night,  and  the  night  after.  Lionel  was  puzzled  for  a 
little  while.  Then  he  remembered  the  descriptions  of 
high  life  in  Doomed  and  Damned,  or  the  Mystery  of  Lady 
Grace.  Antony  was  a  waiter. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          299 

It  struck  him  as  pitiful.  What  sort  of  life  was  that 
for  a  man?  What  human  relationships  made  life  less 
bitter  to  the  creature  ?  What  kind  of  harrow  had  gone 
over  him?  Something  hard  and  sharp.  A  man  came 
cringing  in  at  half  past  nine,  to  write  all  day  in  a  little 
gas-warmed  office.  He  took  a  joy  in  the  fire.  "  Very 
nice  and  warm,  sir,  very  ingenious,  this  little  gas-fire. " 
Antony  had  gone  fireless  some  time  in  his  life,  that  was 
plain.  After  a  morning's  writing,  he  lunched  in  a  tea- 
shop,  "  a  lunch-cake  "  and  a  cup  of  coffee,  then  wrote 
again  till  William  brought  him  tea,  then  slunk  away  to 
be  a  waiter.  And  on  Sundays?  What  did  he  do  on 
Sundays?  On  Sundays  Antony  waited  during  the 
luncheon  hours.  "  It  was  a  change." 

Then  there  was  Miss  Coleman.  She  came  to  see  him 
after  sending  him  the  dummy  for  a  suggested  new  weekly 
paper.  Something  in  the  dummy  made  him  ask  her  to 
call.  She  was  about  twenty-two.  She  was  a  gentle- 
looking  woman,  robust,  with  rather  beautiful  eyes.  Her 
hands  were  strong  and  capable.  There  was  a  dignity  in 
her  bearing  which  Lionel  liked.  She  wasn't  "  a  lady  " 
perhaps;  she  was  something  better;  she  was  a  fine 
character.  Lionel  made  a  mental  note  that  all  the  best 
women  known  to  him  had  the  same  kind  of  eyes.  Miss 
Coleman's  eyes  reminded  him  continually  of  Mrs. 
Drummond. 

"  Have  you  done  ordinary  typing?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  very  lately,"  she  said.  "  I  typed  one  or  two 
things,  out  of  hours." 

"How  lately?" 

She  hesitated.  His  eye  fixed  her.  "  Six  months 
ago,"  she  said. 

"  Look  here."  Lionel  rose,  pulled  out  a  sheet  of 
paper  and  handed  it  to  her.  "  Take  down  what  I'm 
going  to  say.  Here's  a  pencil."  He  dictated  a  letter. 
She  took  it  down  in  shorthand. 


300          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  There's  a  machine  over  there/'  he  said.  "  Just 
write  it  for  me.  Are  you  used  to  a  Smith  ?  " 

"  Yes/'  she  said,  faintly,  white  to  the  lips.  She 
walked  unsteadily  to  the  Smith.  Lionel  watched  her. 
Something  in  her  manner  startled  the  doctor  in  him. 
She  pressed  back  the  catches,  and  lifted  the  big  tin 
cover.  She  put  it  down  with  an  unusual  tender  care  as 
though  she  feared  to  make  any  noise.  Lionel  took  a 
step  towards  her.  She  fingered  the  paper  for  an  instant. 
Then  she  dabbed  at  the  platen  with  a  foolish  hand. 
She  took  a  deep  breath  or  two,  gave  a  little  cry  and 
fainted  off. 

"  Good  Lord/'  said  Lionel.  His  brain  ran  over  the 
possibilities  in  an  instant  of  time.  "  Starvation,"  he 
thought.  If  she  had  had  another  kind  of  eye  he  would 
have  suspected  the  beginning  of  an  attempt  at  black- 
mail. There  was  a  carafe  on  his  desk.  He  splashed  a 
little  water  on  to  her  face  from  the  carafe.  She  soon 
came  to.  Lionel  noticed,  and  felt  a  beast  for  noticing, 
that  the  soles  of  her  shoes  were  much  worn  at  the  toe  and 
heel.  He  helped  her  into  a  chair,  gave  her  water  to  sip, 
and  felt  very  like  a  dentist  waiting  for  a  patient  to 
rinse.  "  Blackmail,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  She  doesn't 
look  like  that.  But  if  her  nerves  are  all  wrong.  .  .  ." 
He  remembered  the  countless  hysterical  charges  brought 
against  men.  When  she  looked  better  (though  still 
very  white  and  confused)  he  spoke  again. 

"  You  walked  here?" 

"  Yes,"  she" answered. 

"  Are  you  better,  now?  Can  you  bear  to  listen? 
You  needn't  hurry.  You  can  sit  and  rest." 

"  I  am  all  right,"  she  said,  weakly. 

"  Well,"  he  said.  "  Snip  Snap  may  be  a  failure. 
The  job  may  not  be  permanent.  I'll  take  you  on  if  you 
like,  to  start,  at  thirty  shillings  a  week,  as  my  secretary. 
I'll  raise  you,  gradually,  to  two  ten.  If  Snip  Snap's  a 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          301 

success  I  shall  float  a  weekly  like  this  dummy  of  yours. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  could  edit  it.  Come  here  to- 
morrow at  nine."  She  thanked  him,  but  made  no  effort 
to  go.  She  looked  as  weak  as  water.  William  brought 
in  tea.  Lionel  told  him  to  bring  in  another  cup.  He 
drank  only  China  tea,  which  William,  after  many  sup- 
reptitious  sips,  had  condemned  as  flavourless.  Miss 
Coleman  drank  tea  and  ate  a  couple  of  biscuits.  Lionel 
gave  her  a  week's  wages  in  advance  and  sent  her  home 
in  a  cab.  Long  afterwards  he  learnt  her  story.  She 
had  been  out  of  work  for  six  months.  When  she  walked 
to  the  office  that  afternoon,  she  had  eaten  nothing  for 
thirty-six  hours. 

William,  the  office  boy,  was  another  strange  product 
of  our  civilisation.  He  was  an  honest-looking,  ugly 
creature,  with  a  big,  loose  mouth  and  the  power  of 
moving  the  skin  of  his  scalp  at  will.  He  had  been  born 
in  the  cabin  of  a  canal  barge,  about  fifteen  years  before 
this  story  begins.  A  drunken  uncle  brought  him  up, 
by  means  of  a  foul  tongue  and  a  belt.  When  he  was 
nearly  nine  years  old  the  uncle  died.  William  made  a 
living  for  a  time  by  dodging  about  among  the  streets. 
After  a  few  weeks  of  this  he  was  sent  to  a  reformatory 
school  for  trying  to  "  nick  "  a  pair  of  boots  from  a  boot 
shop,  at  the  bidding  of  a  bigger  boy,  who  escaped.  The 
school  was  in  the  charge  of  an  old  ex-sergeant  of  a  line 
regiment.  It  is  a  moot  point,  which  is  the  worse  quali- 
fied to  look  after  boys,  an  ex-Army  or  an  ex-Navy  man. 
Lionel  gathered  from  William  that  this  ex-sergeant  was 
probably  worse  than  a  Navy-man. 

"  We  didn't  'alf  use  to  cop  it,  sir.  'E  'ad  a  belt  'e 
called  Nero.  But  wot  'urt  worse  than  any  belt  was  a 
Kine.  'E  used  to  'ave  the  Kine  when  the  Committee 
came  rahnd.  That  wos  like  the  gov'nors  of  the  school. 
They'd  used  to  ast  us  wos  we  'appy.  When  we  see  the 
Kine  we  didn't  dare  say  No.  One  time  I  said  I  wasn't 


302          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

'appy.  The  sergeant  'ad  been  laying  into  me.  'E'd 
cop  me  some  fair  ones.  So  when  I  said  that  'e  told  the 
Committee  that  I  was  a  bleedn  young  liar.  They  were 
only  a  lot  of  old  white  'aired  geezers,  like  gentlemen. 
And  of  course  they  took  'is  word.  I  didn't  'alf  cop  it 
before  Turn  in,  wot's  more.  O  that  Kine  was  awful. 
When  'e'd  been  'aving  a  pot  or  two,  'e  used  to  come 
rahnd  where  we  were  in  bed.  'E  used  to  kine  us 
through  the  clothes.  I  got  aht  of  that  school  after  I'd 
bin  there  three  years.  I  'ad  the  pleece  after  me.  I  got 
away  in  an  ash-barge  along  the  canal.  I  didn't  'alf 
stink  when  I  got  aht.  I  got  aht  of  the  ash  pretty  near 
starved.  And  the  missus  of  the  barge  'adn't  seen  me 
come  aht,  it  give  'er  a  turn.  '  Gor  blimey,'  she  says, 
'  where  the  'ell  d'joo  come  from  ?  '  She  'elped  me  wiv 
some  clothes.  I  went  along  the  canal  to  I  get  to  some 
plice.  An  old  bloke  ast  me  to  come  in  to  a  sort  of 
church  plice  where  there  was  magic-lanterns.  So  'e 
give  me  tea  and  kike,  and  there  was  a  silly  sort  of 
geezer  wot  didn't  ort  to've  been  aht.  'E  was  checkin  a 
sponge  rahnd  at  the  lemps.  'E  got  one  lemp,  fair,  and 
it  didn't  'alf  explode.  It  was  only  a  wooden  sort  of 
plice.  So  I  thought,  this'll  be  a  bit  of  wot  o  if  that  lemp 
ketches  onto  that  wood.  So  there  was  girls  and  that 
sitting  round.  So  I  off  me  coat  and  it  only  took  about 
two  minutes  to  'ave  it  aht.  They  spread  me  'ands  with 
butter  after.  A  silly  sort  of  gime,  buttering  a  bloke's 
'ands.  But  it's  a  fair  wot  o  fer  burns.  And  the  old 
bloke  ast  me  wos  I  doin  anythin.  'E  was  Mr.  Carnlow, 
writes  books.  'E  kep  me  in  a  room  to  my  'ands  was 
cured.  Then  he  set  me  up  to  tahn  to  young  Mr.  Carnlow, 
wot  keeps  The  Boys'  Mission.  I'm  sergeant  at  The 
Boys'  Mission.  I  don't  need  no  Kine.  You'd  ought  to 
come  rahnd,  Mr.  'Eseltine.  We  'ave  parades  on  Tues- 
days. There  ain't  bad  boxing,  parade  nights.  There's 
young  Alf  Stone.  'E's  a  fair  knock  aht.  You'd  orter 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          303 

seen  'im  aht  young  Ginger.  'E  cop  the  spike  young 
Ginger.  An'  young  Ginger's  class.  Young  Ginger,  he 
was  in  the  semi-finals  once  at  the  'Empstead.  If  you 
ever  want  ter  back  any  one,  Mr.  'Eseltine,  you'd  orter 
see  young  Stone.  E's  got  a  punch  over  the  'eart.  I 
wouldn't  like  it  to  'appen  ter  me." 

"  There  it  is,"  said  Lionel,  looking  at  them.  "  What 
waste.  What  wa'ste."  There  was  Julia  Coleman,  a 
noble  woman,  a  wife  for  a  king,  allowed  to  starve,  kept 
unused  for  half  a  year  at  the  whim  of  the  market. 
There  was  Antony  Seymour,  broken  to  pieces,  made 
something  less  than  human,  at  the  whim  of  the  law. 
There  was  William,  a  fine,  manly  lad,  with  a  genius,  as 
Lionel  discovered,  for  decorative  design,  driven  to  hide 
in  an  ash-barge  at  the  whim  of  the  whole  senseless 
system.  What  waste.  What  a  system.  It  was  every- 
where, in  every  department  of  life.  A  conspiracy  of 
the  purblind  to  annul  the  fine. 

He  sighed.  He  had  reasons  to  sigh.  He  had  been  at 
work  for  half  a  year;  and  during  all  those  months  he 
had  been  astonished  by  the  corruptness  of  English  com- 
mercial life.  There  were  hands  stretched  out  for  a 
bribe  at  every  corner.  He  sighed.  He  knew  his  Bible 
very  well. 

"'Thy  people  also  shall  be  all  righteous!'"  he 
quoted.  "  '  They  shall  inherit  the  land  for  ever,  the 
branch  of  my  planting.'  At  least,  if  it  may  be,"  he 
muttered.  "  Lord  grant  it,"  as  old  John  Dent  would 
have  said.  No  man  would  sow  seed  without  that 
vision  of  the  green  tree  glorious. 

On  the  day  before  the  day  of  the  first  publication  of 
Snip  Snap,  Lionel  mustered  the  brigade  in  Hyde  Park. 
He  had  a  force  of  four  hundred  infantry,  fifty  bicyclists, 
and  a  band  of  thirty  instruments,  mostly  drums  and 
fifes.  Lionel  put  them  through  a  little  simple  drill,  in 
the  presence  of  some  hundreds  of  loafers.  He  then 


304         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

marched  them  down  Oxford  Street  singing  to  a  new 
catchy  quickstep,  which  was  soon  hummed  all  over  the 
town.  A  copy  of  the  words  and  music  was  given  away 
the  next  day  with  each  copy  of  the  new  paper. 

The  success  of  Snip  Snap  was  amazing.  Nothing 
had  been  said  about  it.  Nobody  had  heard  about  it. 
Suddenly,  on  an  unready  London,  came  a  new  paper,  a 
new  song,  a  new  force.  "  SNIP  SNAP.  You  cannot  get 
it  at  the  bookstalls/'  Green  and  white  banners  printed 
with  that  legend  waved  from  half  the  omnibuses  in 
London.  Similar  banners  waved  from  the  office 
windows.  The  green  and  white  uniforms  of  the  Brigade 
drew  crowds.  There  was  a  crowd  about  each  boy.  No 
first  number  ever  sold  so  well.  It  sold  like  hot  cakes. 
Snip  Snap.  Have  you  seen  Snip  Snap  ?  It  was  the 
talk  of  the  world.  By  dusk  that  evening,  when,  after 
countless  interviews,  Lionel  found  time  to  share  some 
food  with  Miss  Coleman  in  the  office,  he  was  assured  of 
success.  The  press  had  been  running  all  day  long 
turning  out  more  and  yet  more  copies.  The  office  was 
besieged.  The  crowd  in  the  street  waiting  for  copies 
was  marshalled  by  the  police,  like  a  theatre  queue. 
Up  above  the  crowd,  from  the  central  window  of  the 
office,  three  big  phonographs  shouted  in  order  a  horrible 
kind  of  part-song: — 

"  Snip  Snap 

You  cannot  get  it  at  the  bookstalls 
Snip  Snap." 

Mr.  Lorenzo  Ike,  the  well-know  comedian,  had  been 
taken  into  Lionel's  confidence  some  days  before.  He 
delighted  four  "  halls  "  that  evening  with  a  new  topical 
song— 

"  Snip  Snap 

Have  you  seen  Snip  Snap? 
If  you  haven't,  you're  a  pip,  chap." 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         305 

When  once  heard,  the  song  stayed  in  the  brain  till 
death  released  the  sufferer.  Snip  Snap.  "  Have  you 
seen  Snip  Snap?  "  Up  above  the  window  from  which 
the  phonographs  shouted,  an  illumination  ran  along  the 
office  wall,  from  letter  to  letter. 

"  Snip  Snap/'  it  ran.  "  You  cannot  get  it  at  the 
bookstalls."  Letter  after  letter  flashed  out,  till  the 
whole  was  lit.  Then  the  letters  blinked  for  an  instant. 
The  gold  of  the  lighting  flashed  to  green.  After  another 
instant,  the  green  became  red.  There  was  a  pause. 
People  watched.  The  light  died.  The  letters  were 
blank  for  a  moment.  Then,  with  a  wink,  the  S  glowed 
gold  again.  Letter  after  letter  flashed.  A  roar  of 
laughter  rose  from  the  crowd  when  the  message  came  to 
an  end. 

"  You  cawn't  get  it  at  the  bookstalls." 

"  Thet's  aw  right,  en't  it  ?  " 

"  Snip  Snep." 

At  half-past  eleven,  when  the  streets  were  crowded 
by  the  emptying  of  the  halls  and  theatres,  the  band  of 
the  Snip  Snap  Brigade  marched  from  Hyde  Park  Corner 
to  St.  Paul's,  playing  the  now  familiar  tune.  A  large 
crowd  followed  the  band.  In  Piccadilly  Circus,  the 
revellers  coming  from  the  Caballero  insisted  that  the 
band  should  play  the  song  with  which  Mr.  Lorenzo  Ike 
had  been  delighting  them.  The  words  and  the  music  of 

"  Snip  Snap 

Have  you  seen  Snip  Snap  ? 
If  you  haven't,  you're  a  pip,  chap," 

rose  up  in  a  roar.  Cabmen  jeered  at  the  marchers. 
Men  and  women,  standing  on  the  tops  of  omnibuses 
wondered,  cheered,  or  sobbed,  as  the  enthusiasm  flooded 
past  to  the  tune.  Snip  Snap.  The  fifes  went  wailing 
round  the  corner.  The  purity  of  their  tone  searched 
the  heart.  Women  cried.  Men  flinging  away  their 


3o6         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

tickets,  even  twopenny  and  threepenny  tickets,  hurried 
from  the  omnibuses  to  join  the  march.  There  had  been 
nothing  like  it  since  the  days  of  the  war.  In  the  Hay- 
market  the  army  doubled  itself  from  the  pits  and 
galleries  of  the  theatres.  The  band  marched  on.  The 
drums  thundered.  The  wail  of  the  flutes  cried  aloud. 
In  the  Strand  there  were  four  thousand  people  march- 
ing. Outside  the  Snip  Snap  office  the  crowd  became 
so  dense  that  extra  police  were  called  out. 

Lionel  sent  Miss  Coleman  home.  Several  inter- 
viewers were  waiting  to  see  him.  The  room  was  littered 
with  letters  and  telegrams.  Scores  of  people  had  written 
and  telegraphed  their  congratulations.  The  clerks  in 
the  manager's  office  downstairs  had  worked  overtime. 
William  was  weary  of  heading  off  and  admitting. 
Lionel  was  very  tired.  The  phonographs  were  changed 
suddenly.  The  biggest  of  them  shouted  "  Three  cheers 
for  Snip  Snap."  The  others  joined  in  the  cheering. 
The  crowd  cheered.  The  illumination  stopped.  A 
new  fire  lettering  appeared.  "  Good-night "  it  spelt. 
"  Buy  Snip  Snap.  Good-night/'  The  message  shone 
for  five  minutes,  then  vanished.  The  crowd  moved  on, 
laughing.  They  had  had  their  show.  Lionel  saw  his 
last  interviewer  off  the  premises.  The  evening  press 
had  been  favourable.  People  had  been  wonderfully 
kind.  He  was  touched  by  an  act  of  Miss  Coleman's. 
She  had  come  to  the  office  wearing  rosettes  of  the  Snip 
Snap  colours. 

"  Six  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  William,"  he  said, 
as  he  left  the  office. 

"  Very  good,  Mr.  'Eseltine.  A  bit  of  all  right,  ter 
dye,  sir." 

Lionel  hailed  a  cab.  He  had  tasted  success.  But 
he  was  a  great  deal  too  tired  to  care  for  it.  He  felt  as 
though  his  spine  had  been  removed.  To-morrow  would 
be  empty.  Yet  to-morrow  he  would  need  his  wits,  all 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          307 

his  wits.  To-morrow  would  be  harder  than  to-day. 
To-morrow  he  would  have  to  carry  on  the  fight,  rally  up 
his  friends,  send  on  his  cavalry,  be  the  conquering 
general.  Often,  in  his  soldier  days,  he  had  longed  for 
war.  He  had  now  tasted  war.  One  needs  to  be  strong 
for  war.  One  needs  nerves  of  twisted  steel.  He  thought 
of  Napoleon,  in  that  wonderful  Marengo  campaign. 
That  was  the  way  to  fight.  His  weariness  told  him 
that  he  was  not  Napoleon.  Yet,  as  he  lay  back,  fagged 
to  the  limit,  his  mind  travelled  on  beyond  his  outposts 
into  the  enemy's  camp.  He  had  spent  a  frightful  lot 
of  money.  Would  he  have  enough  to  go  on?  The 
sixpenny  weekly  would  begin  in  a  fortnight.  That  was 
madness.  And  how  would  the  book  and  paper  stalls 
take  up  the  battle  ?  This  brigade  business  was  wolfing 
money.  "  I'll  hang  on,"  he  said,  glooming  at  his  image 
in  the  mirror.  "  I'll  put  in  all  I  have,  and  hang  on." 
The  cab  was  slow.  Motor  cars  have  made  plain  the 
slowness  of  the  cab-horse.  Lionel  shut  his  eyes.  "  What 
will  the  bookstalls  do?  "  he  kept  asking.  "  Lord,  I'm 
tired.  I'm  tired,"  he  repeated.  Napoleon  had  not 
tired.  Napoleon  had  fought  all  day,  upon  a  chess-board 
fifty  miles  long,  and  gone  on  ahead  in  the  night.  Phrases 
of  the  Snip  Snap  march  arose  in  his  mind,  like  living 
things.  He  smiled.  "  I've  much  to  answer  for,"  he 
muttered.  He  saw  Lorenzo  Ike,  trembling  with  drink, 
leaning  over  a  bar,  trying  to  show  a  photograph  of  his 
wife.  The  photograph  was  of  the  size  of  a  postage 
stamp.  Mr.  Ike  carried  it  inside  his  watch-case.  Mr. 
Ike  had  been  rosy.  "  The  sweetest  lil  woman,"  he 
repeated,  "  the  sweetest  lil  woman."  The  whirl  of  the 
day  made  a  blur  of  pictures  in  his  mind.  The  day  was 
like  the  memory  of  something  which  had  happened  long 
ago.  Telegrams  and  drums  and  a  rush  of  people.  End- 
less streams  of  people.  And  to-morrow  he  would  have 
to  be  up  at  five,  to  do  the  work  of  ten. 


308          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

The  cab  turned  out  of  Oxford  Street  into  the  Portman 
estate.  It  dragged  along  northward.  Waking  from  a 
reverie,  Lionel  looked  up  in  time  to  see  Mrs.  Drummond's 
windows.  It  was  long  since  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Drummond. 
It  was  not  long,  really.  It  only  seemed  long.  He  had 
crammed  so  many  of  the  great  events  of  life  into  the  last 
few  months  that  it  seemed  like  an  eternity.  He  must 
go  to  see  her.  He  roused  himself  to  look  back  at  the 
block  of  flats.  His  mind  became  bitter  for  a  moment. 
He  was  going  home  to  Rhoda,  who  did  not  care,  did  not 
care  two  straws,  for  a  work  which  he  was  doing  with  his 
heart's  blood.  Suppose  that  he  were  going  home  to 
Mrs.  Drummond.  He  bit  his  lip  savagely.  His  mind 
shifted  by  its  own  weariness  to  an  interview  with  the 
head  of  the  All  Red  Press.  "  Brute,"  Lionel  muttered. 
"  I've  got  to  see  him  to-morrow.  I'd  give  ten  pounds 
to  be  able  to  stay  in  bed  till  noon."  After  this  his 
thoughts  went  surging  in  his  mind.  Mrs.  Drummond, 
Rhoda,  sunsets,  the  crags  of  Las  Palmas  like  bloody 
spears,  the  charge  of  an  infinite  infantry  going  over  a 
ridge,  a  sea  like  a  cantering  cavalry  with  flashing  flags. 
The  drums  of  the  march  beat  up.  He  was  dropping 
bombs  upon  a  world.  Or  was  he  scattering  sugar  plums  ? 
Presently  the  bombs  would  burst.  Or  was  it  sugar 
plums?  Mrs.  Drummond  was  coming  to  bathe  his 
forehead.  He  did  not  wake  till  the  cabman,  peering 
through  the  hatch,  had  prodded  him  with  the  whip- 
butt.  He  crept  silently  upstairs.  It  was  after  mid- 
night. The  lifts  were  not  working.  At  the  end  of  his 
long  climb  he  let  himself  in  by  his  latchkey. 


CHAPTER  VII 

To  Rhoda  the  day  had  been  one  of  revelation.  It 
happens  sometimes,  but  not  very  often,  that  the  inner 
and  the  outer  impressions  work  together  to  create  a 
mood.  They  had  wrought  together,  now,  to  excite  her 
about  her  husband.  The  weather  was  partly  respon- 
sible. A  cool,  brisk,  sunny  autumn  day,  without  wind, 
disposes  man  and  beast  to  virtue.  She  had  risen  late, 
after  he  had  left  the  house.  This  touched  her.  She 
was  a  little  ashamed  that  Lionel  should  have  gone,  on 
such  a  day,  without  a  message  of  goodwill  from  her. 
She  reproached  herself  for  that.  She  ought  to  have 
seen  him  to  wish  him  success.  Her  self-reproach  made 
her  judgment  of  him  charitable.  It  was  horrid  of  her, 
she  had  been  a  pig.  Poor  Lionel.  How  he  must  have 
felt  it.  "I  will  go  down  to  the  office,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "I'll  see  him,  and  tell  him,  and  ask  him  to  for- 
give me." 

As  she  dressed,  she  thought  of  him  very  tenderly. 
People  who  have  hurt  cruelly  often  salve  their  souls 
with  liberal  washes  of  emotion.  Blessed  are  they  against 
whom  we  sin;  for  they  make  us  forgive  ourselves. 
She  dressed  with  care,  trying  several  veils  before  she 
saw  herself  perfect.  She  stood  for  a  long  time  before 
the  glass,  making  little  mouths  at  herself,  patting  a 
bow  of  blue  gauze  below  her  chin.  He  had  liked  her 
in  those  blue  veils.  He  should  like  her  again.  She 
wondered  whether  it  would  be  difficult  for  her  to  obtain 
permission  to  see  him.  He  would  be  surprised  and 
pleased. 

On  her  way  to  the  office,  she  realised  the  bigness  of 
Lionel's  achievement.  It  was  everywhere,  in  the  streets, 

3°9 


310         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

on  the  omnibuses,  in  the  mouths  of  people.  Snip  Snap, 
the  new  weekly,  only  a  penny.  Snip  Snap,  the  new 
catchword.  She  felt  a  new,  very  real  excitement  when 
she  saw  for  the  first  time  a  Brigade  boy  besieged  by 
buyers.  When  she  came  into  the  Strand  she  could 
not  trust  herself  to  alight.  She  feared  the  crowd.  She 
could  never  have  fought  to  the  office  door,  through  all 
that  mob.  Even  if  she  had  reached  the  office  she  could 
not  have  faced  Lionel,  she  was  too  deeply  moved. 
The  bands  and  the  noise  and  the  excitement  had  taken 
it  out  of  her.  Pushing  up  the  hatch  with  her  trembling 
gloved  fingers,  she  called  to  the  cabman  to  drive  her 
home.  When  she  re-entered  the  flat,  she  found  that 
the  servants  had  learned  the  news.  They  wore  green 
and  white  bows  on  their  dresses.  They  smiled  at  her 
as  one  smiles  at  people  visibly  of  the  same  faction. 

"  How  pleased  Mr.  Heseltine  '11  be,  mum,"  they  said. 
Soon  after  lunch,  an  interviewer  came  to  see  Lionel. 
She  gave  him  coffee  and  cigarettes.  While  he  smoked, 
she  told  him  a  very  little  of  the  little  that  she  could 
remember  of  Lionel's  ideas.  "  His  charming  wife 
received  me  in  her  pretty  drawing-room.  It  is  an  open 
secret  that  Mr.  Heseltine,  a  firm  believer  in  early 
marriages,  was  married  only  last  June.'  She  pleased 
the  interviewer.  Would  she  sing  him  the  Snip  Snap 
song.  She  blushed  very  prettily,  but  refused.  She 
could  not.  After  he  had  gone,  another  came,  to  beg 
for  photographs  of  herself,  Lionel,  their  home,  their 
sitting-room,  etc.,  etc.  When  he  had  gone,  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond  called.  Mrs.  Drummond  did  not  share  her  ex- 
citement. Rhoda  gathered  from  her  manner  that  she 
had  come  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Lionel.  She  had  become 
very  sensitive  to  that  form  of  feminine  attack.  She 
was  not  so  clever  as  Lionel;  she  knew  that.  She  was 
not  even  interested  in  the  things  which  interested  him. 
She  had  already  suffered  much  from  sitting  silent  while 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         311 

clever  women  talked  with  him,  drawing  him  out  in  her 
presence,  flicking  his  vanity  with  little  pretty  tempting 
praises.  She  was  cold  to  Mary  Drummond,  thinking, 
bitterly,  that  Mary  had  come  to  pick  Lionel's  clever 
brain,  not  to  see  her.  She  shrank  into  herself  behind 
manifold  ice.  "  You  think  me  giddy,  and  a  temptress, 
and  a  fool,"  she  thought.  "  I  won't  show  you  anything 
of  myself."  She  showed  a  distant  mask,  "  icily  null." 
Mary  Drummond  came  away  wondering  what  key 
would  open  that  lock.  What  was  the  secret  of  Rhoda, 
for  what  did  she  care?  She  was  disappointed,  less  in 
failing  to  see  Lionel  than  in  failing  to  leave  the  seeds  of 
a  friendship.  She  was  sorry  for  Lionel.  She  saw  in 
Rhoda  many  acquired  refinements  guarding  an  inner 
emptiness.  "  One  of  civilisation's  mistakes  on  the 
way  to  perfection."  Nature  tries  all  ways,  being  the 
only  unhurried  creature.  In  times  of  untroubled  peace, 
earth  is  strangely  patient  with  her  mistakes ;  in  troubled 
times  she  soon  hides  them.  Mary  Drummond  reflected 
that  a  want  of  passionate  interest  is  an  irreligious  state, 
the  satanic,  or  nescient  state,  by  which  nations  are 
destroyed.  She  was  too  wise  to  foretell  disaster.  The 
friends  of  the  couple,  prejudiced  and  short-sighted,  had 
foretold  disaster  for  them,  on  the  ground  that  they  were 
unsuited.  "  No  human  soul,"  she  thought,  "  is  ever 
suited  to  another  soul.  There  is  a  fever  that  blinds  one 
to  the  truth.  The  suiting  of  two  souls  is  the  work  of 
years.  Love  comes  after  trying  many  ways,  suffering 
and  being  suffered.  When  the  world  has  given  its 
batterings,  and  the  man,  having  stopped  crying  for  the 
moon,  has  learned  about  life,  love  may  begin,  if  there  is 
anything  in  either  of  them.  They  will  find  out  whether 
there  is  anything."  Something  told  her  that  their  find- 
ing out  would  be  harsh,  perhaps  worse  than  harsh, 
bitter  perhaps,  life  in  wormwood.  Well.  Love  and 
the  other  things  worth  having,  are  only  to  be  won  by 


312          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

suffering.  People  who  have  not  suffered  know  as  much 
about  life  as  the  green  leaf  knows  of  the  tree.  "  Oh, 
many  a  year  must  pass  and  many  a  pain."  Mary 
Drummond  knew  about  life.  Something  of  its  sadness 
and  beauty  was  in  her  face.  Life  had  not  been  sweet 
to  her.  She  had  realised  long  ago  that  life's  purpose  is 
not  sweetness ;  but  that  a  nature  is  made  sweeter  by  it. 
The  earth  wins  in  the  end ;  but  he  respects  the  manful 
wrestler.  He  gives  a  largeness  and  a  kindness,  things 
very  good  to  have  in  the  nature,  when  one  goes  out  into 
the  night,  knocking  one's  way  in  the  dark.  She 
wondered  to  what  heights  these  two  souls  might  rise. 

After  she  had  gone,  Rhoda  paced  up  and  down, 
feverishly  excited.  This  great  scheme  was  partly  hers. 
London  was  shouting  for  Lionel.  She  had  seen  a 
London  crowd  cheering  him.  It  had  never  come  home 
to  her  till  then  that  Lionel  was  intimately  hers.  The 
thought  that  she,  his  ally,  did  not  quite  deserve  that 
praise  was  a  cold  douche  upon  her.  How  could  she 
show  her  realisation  of  what  he  was  ?  She  had  to  make 
amends  for  so  much.  The  crowd  could  cheer  him.  It 
was  reserved  for  her  to  give  him  the  praise  that  would 
mean  much  to  him.  The  reality  of  life  came  to  her  in 
a  flash,  making  her  draw  her  breath.  It  was  not  so 
terrible.  There  was  a  fear  in  her  lest  it  should  be 
terrible.  Nervously  she  peered  into  the  future.  She 
saw  other  women  giving  him  that  praise,  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond, and  the  clever  women  like  her.  Like  many 
women  she  was  merciless  to  her  sex  in  questions  of 
possession,  merciless  to  the  other  sex  in  questions  of 
law.  She  saw  so  clearly  the  clever  woman  "  making 
herself  the  sister  of  his  spirit, "  by  discreet  feminine 
manoeuvring,  subtly  contemptuous  of  the  less  clever 
wife.  She  saw  herself  in  a  position  without  dignity  as 
the  reward  of  her  own  cowardice. 

Dora  came  to  tea.     She  was  not  excited,  that  was  not 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          313 

her  metier,  but  she  fanned  the  excitement  in  her  friend 
by  saying  that  Lionel  had  surprised  her. 

As  Dora  was  going,  a  barrel  organ  in  the  road  burst 
out  with  the  Snip  Snap  march.  "  That  is  fame/'  said 
Dora,  going. 

Fame.  It  was  fame  in  a  way.  It  was  success, 
notoriety.  It  was  the  newspaper  triumph  that  had 
always  seemed  to  her  so  smart  and  difficult  of  achieve- 
ment. It  was  here,  now,  hers.  It  was  very  new  and 
very  wonderful  to  her.  Lionel,  as  a  famous  man,  was 
a  new  Lionel.  The  world,  with  this  new  excitement  in 
it,  was  a  new  world.  She  sat  staring  into  the  fire  for 
long  minutes,  aghast,  yet,  in  a  way,  happy.  At  dinner 
she  could  not  eat.  She  felt  as  though  a  spirit  had 
entered  into  her,  making  her  shudder.  After  dinner 
she  rose  up.  "  I  will  welcome  him/'  she  said  to  her- 
self. .  "  I  will  welcome  him."  Going  to  her  room  she 
decked  herself  in  her  choicest  clothes.  She  dressed  her 
hair  as  he  had  loved  it.  "  I  am  beautiful,"  she  mur- 
mured, looking  at  herself  in  the  glass.  "  I  am  beautiful 
for  him."  Settling  herself  into  his  chair  in  the  study 
she  fell  asleep,  waiting  for  him  to  come  in  to  receive  her 
praise.  Her  old  colour  was  in  her  cheek.  She  slept 
like  a  little  child  breathing  gently.  She  had  a  power  of 
sleep.  The  march  of  the  clock  never  woke  her.  The 
dropping  of  letters  on  the  doormat  half  roused  her  now 
and  then.  "It  is  not  Lionel,"  she  murmured.  Then 
she  drowsily  smiled  and  slept  again. 

At  last,  after  midnight,  Lionel  came  home.  He 
fumbled  with  his  latch-key  like  an  old  man  weary  of 
life.  He  was  dog  tired.  He  groped  about  for  the 
switch,  turned  on  the  light,  listened  for  an  instant  at 
Rhoda's  door,  and  then  walked  softly  to  his  study.  To 
his  surprise  the  door  opened  before  him.  Rhoda  stood 
there. 

"  Come  in/'  she  said.     She  went  to  him.     She  put 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

her  hands  upon  his  shoulders.  Blinking  at  her  from 
weary  eyes,  he  saw  that  she  was  dressed  in  the  kimono 
which  she  had  worn  when  he  first  met  her.  The  old 
colour  was  in  her  face.  She  had  been  sleeping.  The 
flush  of  sleep  was  on  her.  Her  hair  was  "  done  "  in  the 
simple  Greek  style  which  pleased  him.  She  was  radiant. 

"  Poor  boy/'  she  said,  "  you're  worn  out."  She  drew 
him  gently  to  the  armchair  and  arranged  a  cushion  for 
him.  She  had  soup,  toast,  and  an  egg-nogg  prepared 
for  him.  She  waited  on  him  as  though  he  were  a  child. 
She  stroked  his  hand.  She  caught  it  to  her  cheek  with 
the  humbleness  which  had  moved  him  long  ago.  The 
room  was  littered  with  evening  papers. 

"  Dear,"  she  said,  "  I'm  so  glad  it's  been  a  success. 
I  went  down  into  the  Strand  to  see.  And  I've  been 
reading  the  papers.  The  papers  are  full  of  it.  I  knew 
you'd  have  a  success." 

He  stroked  her  hand.  "  Success,"  he  said.  "  It's 
not  a  success  yet.  The  fight's  only  just  begun.  Look 
here.  You  ought  to  be  asleep.  You  oughtn't  to  have 
stayed  up  for  me." 

"  I  ought  to  have  been  with  you  in  the  office,"  she 
said.  "  Helping  you  all  I  could." 

"  I'm  too  weary  to  scold  you.  And  you've  been  a 
good  person,"  he  said.  "  It  was  thoughtful  of  you  to 
get  all  this  ready  for  me."  She  was  sitting  on  the  arm 
of  his  chair.  She  drew  his  head  against  her  side. 

"  Do  you  like  it?  "  she  asked. 

"I'm  too  weary,"  he  said.  "I'm  too  weary.  Rhoda. 
Get  me  up  at  seven  to-morrow.  I've  an  awful  day 
before  me."  He  rose  to  his  feet,  half -asleep.  She  rose, 
too.  She  made  a  movement  towards  him.  The  sleeves 
of  the  kimono  fell  back,  showing  the  gleam  of  her  arms. 
She  crept  against  him,  hiding  her  head  upon  him. 

"Lionel,"  she  said.  "I  ought  to  have  helped 
more." 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          315 

"  Helped  more/'  he  said,  stupidly.  "  It's  a  man's 
job,  little  one." 

"  Dear,"  she  said,  twining  her  arms  about  him.  "  I 
want  you  to  let  me  help  more." 

He  looked  at  her,  full  of  sleep,  much  too  tired  to  come 
to  her  mood.  "  We'll  talk  of  it  to-morrow,"  he  said. 
A  thrill  passed  to  him  from  her.  He  touched  her  cheek 
and  throat.  She  leaned  to  his  touch,  drawing  her  cheek 
against  his  finger  tips.  "  Pussycat,"  he  said.  She 
caught  one  of  his  fingers  between  her  lips. 

"  I  will  help,  Lionel,"  she  said,  "  I'll  learn  to  help. 
And  .  .  .  Lionel." 

"  Yes,  dear  wife." 

"  I've  not  been  a  very  good  wife." 

"Haven't  you?" 

"  I'm  not  clever  at  science.  There's  so  much  of  you 
I  can't  help."  She  drew  him  to  her.  "  Only  .  .  . 
Lionel." 

"  Yes,  dear." 

11  I'm  so  proud."  He  caressed  her  hair,  looking  into 
her  eyes. 

"  Nice  hair,"  he  said  gently. 

"  Lionel." 

"  Yes,  dear?  "  He  turned  her  face  to  the  light,  while 
he  gazed  down  at  her.  "  You've  got  such  a  funny  little 
bridge  to  your  nose,"  he  said.  He  touched  it.  "  It's 
like  no  other  in  the  world."  The  remark  jarred  upon 
her.  He  was  on  the  external  plane.  He  was  trying  to 
keep  her  there. 

"  Poor  boy,  you  must  sleep,"  she  said.  "  You  won't 
have  more  soup  ?  " 

"  No,  thanks.  Good-night,  dear."  She  sighed.  She 
stooped.  She  hid  her  disappointment  by  picking  up  the 
newspapers. 

"I'll  leave  word  on  my  slate,"  she  said,  "  for  Susan  to 
call  you  at  a  quarter  to  seven.  I  hope  you'll  sleep  well." 


3i6          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

He  walked  slowly  to  the  door,  yawning.  He  stopped 
at  the  door. 

'"  You'll  go  to  bed  ?  "  he  said.  His  attitude  suggested 
that  he  was  conscious  of  something  unusual.  She  ought 
not  to  be  up  at  this  hour. 

"  Yes.  It's  very  late/'  she  said.  The  clock  gave  a 
little  chime  for  the  hour,  and  struck  one.  The  church 
clocks  of  London  chimed.  Up  there  in  the  stars  they 
could  hear  a  dozen  together.  One  noble  tone  spoke  to 
the  spirit. 

"  Big  Ben,"  he  said.  "  The  wind's  drawn  southerly." 
He  made  a  note  in  his  pocket  book. 

"  What  are  you  writing?  "  she  asked. 

"  A  note  for  my  brigade,  in  case  of  rain/'  he  said. 

"  How  splendid  your  brigade  looked,  dear." 

"  Oh,  the  brigade,"  he  said,  "  yes."  The  worry  of  the 
next  day  was  strong  upon  him.  He  sat  down  despond- 
ently, thinking.  "  I  wish  I'd  never  started  that 
brigade,"  he  muttered. 

She  was  quick  to  see  his  trouble.  She  stood  by  the 
table  looking  at  him.  Her  right  hand  rested  on  the 
newspapers,  now  neatly  folded.  Her  left  hand  patted 
her  hair,  so  that  the  sleeve  fell  loose,  showing  the  grace 
of  her  arm.  Her  colour  glowed,  her  eyes  were  bright. 
She  had  dressed  to  win  him.  She  saw  his  weariness 
with  the  contempt  which  women  feel  for  weary  men. 
Weariness  is  a  rival.  Her  mouth  smiled,  but  behind  the 
smile  the  woman  in  her  clenched  her  teeth.  He  looked 
so  dead  beat.  And  the  beautiful  she  was  waiting  for 
him.  "  Can't  I  make  him  come  to  me  ?  "  she  muttered. 
She  spread  her  arms,  standing  quite  still,  with  her  head 
thrown  back.  He  rose. 

"  I  must  rest,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  why  I'm 
stopping  here." 

"  Yes.  Go  to  bed  and  rest,"  she  said.  "  You  want 
rest." 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          317 

To  her  surprise  he  came  to  her.  He  looked  so  blood- 
less with  fatigue  that  she  shrank  from  him.  She  saw 
what  he  would  be  when  he  was  old.  The  instant  of 
repulsion  passed. 

"  Lionel,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  dear?  "  The  emotion  in  her  yearned  to  fold 
him.  She  was  maternal. 

"  You  poor,  tired  boy,"  she  said.  She  took  hold  of 
him.  "I'm  going  to  kiss  your  eyes  to  sleep." 

"  They  won't  need  much  kissing,"  he  said.  "  Put 
out  the  light,  will  you?  It  hurts."  The  switch  was  on 
the  table,  below  the  reading  lamp.  She  turned  the  snap. 
The  glow  died  along  the  wires.  They  were  in  firelight. 
Her  arms  went  about  him. 

"  Lay  your  head  on  my  shoulder,"  she  said. 

"  Ah,  no,  dear." 

"  Yes.  I  want  it.  Do  what  you're  told.  Coming 
home  tired  at  one  in  the  morning." 

In  his  bedroom,  a  cool  sponge  refreshed  him.  She 
sponged  his  face  and  hands.  He  was  so  weary  that  he 
could  not  check  her  when  she  began  to  unlace  his  boots. 
He  felt  the  cool,  soft,  grateful  pillow.  It  seemed  to 
close  about  his  head,  shutting  out  the  world. 

"  Lionel,  dear."  Shame  pricked  him.  He  had  not 
been  very  kind  to  Rhoda. 

"  Yes."  His  hand  stroked  the  kimono  sleeve.  Her 
hand  closed  upon  his ! 

"  You'll  always  have  Rhoda,  even  if  the  work's  a 
failure." 

"Do  you  think  it'll  be  a  failure?"  he  asked.  His 
nerves  were  on  edge  at  the  thought. 

"  No,  dear." 

"  You're  not  very  sure  about  it." 

"  Yes.     I  am.     Quite  sure." 

"  Well.  I'm  not,"  he  said  ungraciously.  He  shut 
his  eyes,  thrusting  his  head  further  into  the  pillow.  "I 


318          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

must  sleep,"  he  muttered.  He  slept.  Rhoda  looked 
at  his  face,  already  blank  with  sleep.  She  crept  out  of 
the  room  on  tip-toe,  shading  the  light  with  one  hand. 
She  stole  into  her  own  room,  flung  up  the  window,  and 
stood  there,  looking  out  into  the  night.  Her  thought 
was,  "  This  is  to  be  life.  To  win  through  the  day  alone, 
to  dress  carefully,  in  the  way  he  likes,  to  let  him  in,  half 
dead  with  fatigue,  at  midnight,  and  to  have  the  wifely 
privilege  of  keeping  him  from  going  to  bed  in  his  boots. 
Her  hands  were  soiled  from  touching  his  boots.  She 
washed  them,  with  a  quotation  from  Macbeth.  She 
shut  the  window,  and  whisked  the  curtain  across  it. 
She  walked  dejectedly  to  the  fireplace.  She  stood  there, 
staring  into  the  coals.  On  the  mantelpiece  were  little 
photographs  in  silver  frames.  They  were  the  photo- 
graphs of  her  friends.  Dora,  Milly,  Lionel.  One  of 
them  was  of  Colin  Maunsel.  She  picked  it  up,  thought- 
fully. She  glanced  at  the  door  to  be  sure  that  it  was 
shut. 

She  looked  intently  at  the  photograph.  It  was  like 
him.  That  indescribable  look  of  the  sea  which  made 
him  so  different  from  other  men  came  out  in  the  photo- 
graph a  little.  She  tried  to  define  it  to  herself,  but 
could  not.  It  was  in  the  look  of  the  eye  accustomed  to 
wide  horizons,  it  was  in  the  flex  of  the  mouth  accustomed 
to  authority,  it  was,  a  little,  in  the  whole  face,  a  strange- 
ness, as  of  one  shut  off  from  normal  life,  unused  to 
women.  It  was  not  a  handsome  face.  There  was 
something  thin  and  wanting  in  it.  Looking  at  it,  she 
felt  a  pity  for  him.  People  had  told  her  that  they  had 
not  been  kind  to  him  in  the  Navy.  She  had  not  been 
kind  to  him.  Perhaps  life  had  been  unkind  to  him. 
Poor  Colin. 

She  sat  down,  very  wretched,  still  holding  the  photo- 
graph. Colin  had  not  forgotten  her.  Colin  would  not 
have  slighted  her.  If  she  had  married  Colin,  perhaps 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          319 

it  would  all  have  been  well.  She  knew  Colin  now. 
That  minute  at  the  farm,  when  the  blood  burned  in 
their  faces.  She  knew.  He  knew.  "  Oh,  Colin, 
Colin/'  she  cried.  "  I  was  cruel  to  you,  dear.  But 
women  have  to  be  cruel.  You  don't  know,  dear.  Oh, 
but  you  know  now.  You  understand.  And  I'm 
miserable.  He  only  cares  for  his  work.  He  doesn't 
care  for  me,  not  for  the  real  me."  She  got  up,  to  dry 
her  tears  at  the  mirror.  "  You  don't  care  for  me, 
Lionel,"  she  said,  sobbing.  "  You  don't.  You  know 
you  don't.  But  other  people  would  be  very  glad  to 
care  for  me.  Oh,  Colin,  Colin,  I  wish  we  were  dead 
together  somewhere  on  the  hills."  She  had  a  pathetic 
sight  of  two  white  faces  senseless  in  the  fern,  with  the 
rain  falling  on  them.  "  That  would  be  peace,"  she 
thought.  "  Up  there  on  the  hills."  Drying  her  eyes, 
while  her  misery  fattened  on  the  melancholy  picture, 
she  flung  herself  upon  her  bed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  days  passed,  bringing  heavy  burdens  for  Lionel  and 
Rhoda.  They  brought  the  burden  of  a  life  in  common 
imperfectly  shared.  The  work  claimed  Lionel  more 
than  he  had  expected.  He  had  hoped  for  a  greater  ease 
after  the  publication  of  Snip  Snap.  It  was  not  granted 
to  him.  After  Snip  Snap  he  had  to  prepare  and 
publish  his  illustrated  weekly,  S.S.T.  After  S.S.T. 
was  published  he  tried  again  to  begin  a  reasonable  life 
at  home;  but  it  was  not  to  be.  Rhoda,  who  had  once 
longed  for  him  to  be  at  home  with  her,  now  seemed 
offended  by  his  presence  there.  At  first,  as  he  knew 
little  of  women,  he  had  no  clue  to  her  mind.  He 
accepted  her  schemes  for  amusement,  without  suspect- 
ing that  they  were  planned  so  that  she  might  not  be 
alone  with  him.  Until  Christmas  time  he  was  her  un- 
suspecting footman,  engaged  in  taking  her  to  dinners 
and  theatres,  or  carving  for  her  guests.  The  old  cause 
of  estrangement  was  not  discussed  by  him.  He  was 
not  going  to  trouble  her.  Her  wish  was  "  not  to  be 
near  him."  Living  in  the  same  flat,  going  to  the  same 
friends,  sitting  in  the  same  rooms,  brought  her  near  to 
him  a  hundred  times  a  day.  A  word,  a  touch,  a  gesture 
had  power  to  "  trouble  "  her.  The  wisest,  most  sensi- 
tive man  could  not  have  kept  the  peace  a  day.  Being 
neither  very  wise  nor  very  sensitive  he  "  troubled  "  her 
several  times  daily,  and  was  shown  that  he  did  so. 
"  Nerves,"  he  thought.  "  Nerves.  What  kind  of  life 
did  her  mother  lead  that  the  child  should  live  behind 
spears  like  this?  "  He  thought  of  women  married  to 
animal  men.  "  Perhaps  that  explains  the  shrinking," 
320 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          321 

he  said  to  himself.  "  The  father  is  a  beast.  I  can 
understand  a  woman  shrinking  from  him."  Meanwhile, 
life  went  on,  little  like  life. 

After  Christmas,  Dora  came  to  stay  with  them.  She 
came  on  the  heels  of  a  telegram.  Rhoda  wrote  to  put 
off  a  long-promised  visit  to  Mrs.  Drummond. 

After  some  talk  with  Dora,  she  regretted  her  haste. 
Colin  Maunsel  was  in  town,  staying  at  the  Eric  Hamlins, 
expecting  them  to  call.  She  caught  Lionel's  hand  to 
her  cheek  as  he  passed  her. 

"  Lionel,  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  must  go  to  Mrs. 
Drummond.  You  were  right.  I  was  selfish.  Only,  I 
can't.  You  must  go  alone.  Will  you  go  out  and  send 
a  telegram  ?  Say  that  my  letter  was  a  mistake.  She'll 
only  just  have  got  it.  And  say  you'll  come.  It'll  be 
nice  for  you.  I'd  like  you  to  have  that  time  in  the 
country." 

He  did  not  understand  the  volte  face ;  but  her  manner 
was  too  sweet  (caressing,  even)  for  him  to  be  suspicious. 
The  thought  of  being  with  some  one  who  would  talk  ideas 
was  pleasant  to  him.  Rhoda's  talk  was  anecdotal,  con- 
ventional, and  reminiscent.  Lionel  had  grown  weary  of 
that  kind  of  talk.  So  he  was  to  go  down  to  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  musing  for  a  moment.  "  I'll 
telegraph."  He  picked  up  a  telegraph  form  and  walked 
towards  the  door,  framing  a  message  as  he  went.  Some- 
thing made  him  glance  at  the  mirror  over  the  piano.  He 
could  not  define  the  impulse.  It  was  one  of  those 
promptings  from  beyond  us  that  alter  life.  He  saw 
Rhoda  signalling  triumph  to  Dora  from  behind  his  back. 
Glancing  wearily  at  Dora  who  sat  a  little  to  his  left,  he 
saw  her  receive  the  message,  smile,  and  instantly  sup- 
press the  smile.  He  shut  the  door  behind  him  lest  he 
should  see  Rhoda  clapping  her  hands  in  dumb  show. 

"So  it  was  to  get  rid  of  me,"  he  muttered,  bitterly. 

x 


322         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

The  next  thought  was  that  she  had  been  getting  rid  of 
him  for  weeks  in  scores  of  subtle  ways  unnoticed  by  him. 
He  remembered  looks,  acts,  little  wheedlings.  "  So  I 
was  being  managed  all  the  time,"  he  muttered.  He 
went  into  his  study,  crumpling  the  telegraph  form. 

Her  heart,  left  to  itself  too  long,  had  taken  another 
image.  His  absences,  once  so  hateful  to  her,  were  now 
longed  for,  schemed  for.  When  he  was  away  she  was 
free  to  indulge  that  image  to  her  heart's  content,  deck- 
ing it  with  the  flowers  of  sentiment,  giving  it  life  from 
the  intensity  of  her  longing.  We  are  bidden  to  refrain 
from  making  graven  images,  and  to  keep  ourselves  from 
idols.  Those  who  make  an  idol  by  the  indulgence  in 
bitter  heartache,  rather  than  face  something  hard  in  life, 
prepare  a  sensual  feast.  They  brew  poison,  when  they 
might  drink  tonic.  They  cast  out  into  the  air  an  in- 
visible web,  slimed  with  sweet  sickly  stuff,  attractive  to 
a  kind  of  fly.  They  send  out  spirits  able  to  enter  into 
hearts,  able  to  beguile  them.  Spirits  of  sentiment  are 
the  only  evil  spirits  in  civilised  communities.  They 
destroy  life  at  the  root.  No  men,  and  few  women,  are 
safe  from  them.  The  strong  may  detect  their  presence 
by  asking  honestly  of  an  emotion,  "  What  life  will  this 
thing  make?  "  or  if  they  prefer  it,  "  What  figure  would 
this  thing  cut  in  print?  " 

Lionel  came  in  to  tea  that  afternoon.  Rhoda  asked 
if  he  had  sent  his  telegram. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  going  to  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond."  Perhaps  had  he  gone,  things  would  have 
ended  differently. 

After  that,  he  made  little  effort  to  be  much  at  home. 
He  was  glad  that  his  work  kept  him  much  away.  Rhoda 
was  glad,  too.  But  her  day-dream  was  no  longer  sweet 
to  her.  The  image  was  too  strong  for  sweetness.  It 
was  a  gnawing,  brooding  want  in  her  heart,  feeding  on 
her  tears,  torturing  her  with  dreams,  sweet  only  by 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          323 

contrast  with  the  reality  of  Lionel.  Lionel  was  a  con- 
tinual interruption,  continually  punished  by  her.  She 
put  slights  upon  him  with  neat,  deliberate  feminine 
malice.  She  thought  him  too  stupid  to  know  when  he 
was  being  pricked.  Bitter  women  make  that  mistake, 
and  wonder  that  they  have  no  votes.  It  was  a  time  of 
misery  to  them  both.  To  him,  harassed  as  he  was, 
night  and  day,  by  the  knowledge  that  his  papers  were 
failing,  it  was  a  time  of  torment. 

Things  went  from  bad  to  worse  at  the  office.  Snip 
Snap  and  S.S.T.  were  not  successes.  After  the  first 
brilliant  month  their  circulations  dropped  to  a  seventh 
of  the  original  total.  At  that  figure,  they  did  not  pay, 
they  lost  money.  He  tried  to  drum  up  the  circulations 
by  advertisements,  competitions,  supplements.  All  of 
these  measures  acted  well  at  first,  yet  none  did  per- 
manent good.  They  did  but  linger  out  the  disease. 
He  was  fighting  the  newspaper  world  with  a  most 
imperfect  weapon.  The  Brigade  wolfed  money  night 
and  day.  He  needed  an  enormous  circulation  to  support 
the  Brigade.  The  Brigade  was  a  millstone  round  his 
neck.  He  recast  Snip  Snap,  and  issued  it  in  a  gayer 
format.  All  to  no  purpose.  He  could  not  make  the 
paper  sell.  He  did  not  know  why  it  did  not  sell.  Dun- 
ning, his  friend,  did  not  know,  Miss  Coleman  did  not 
know.  Papers  as  vulgar,  as  silly,  as  cheap,  as  sensa- 
tional, sold  and  sold  well.  His  paper  did  not  sell.  He 
was  forced  to  conclude  either  that  the  world  was  vulgar 
enough,  which  was  comforting,  if  improbable,  or  that  it 
was  conservative  in  its  vulgarity.  There  were  other 
worries  in  the  business.  Jealousy,  or  a  feeling  of 
mutual  contempt,  had  led  to  bickerings  between  the 
street  newsboys  and  the  boys  of  the  Brigade.  Some  of 
the  quarrel  was  due  to  the  instinct  that  makes  the 
sparrow  peck  the  canary.  But  when  the  street  news- 
boys formed  an  Association,  on  the  lines  of  a  Trade 


324          THBf  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

Union,  Lionel  felt  that  an  enemy  had  begun  to  work 
to  bring  the  Brigade  to  an  end. 

He  saw  Mrs.  Drummond  once  at  this  time.  He  drank 
tea  with  her  at  her  flat  one  bitter  day  early  in  the  New 
Year.  She  gave  him  an  impression  of  the  beauty  of 
goodness,  difficult  to  forget  or  to  define.  He  took 
comfort  from  the  thought  of  her.  He  could  not  think 
of  Mary  Drummond  doing  a  false,  a  mean  or  unjust 
thing.  "  You  would  be  noble  and  good,"  he  thought, 
"  in  any  of  the  tragedies  of  life.  You  would  be  noble 
and  good  in  any  of  the  temptations.  I  wish  I  were 
liker  you,  or  had  you  nearer  to  me."  It  often  happens 
that  a  little  misery  sharpens  our  sense  of  what  is  best  in 
this  world.  In  the  same  way,  flesh  sinks  to  its  proper 
value  when  there  is  a  hill  to  climb. 

He  came  home  one  night,  tired  out  with  worry.  He 
found  Rhoda  sitting  over  the  fire,  drying  her  hair,  while 
Dora  read  to  her  from  a  little  comedy  of  Labiche. 
Something  in  his  face  made  Dora  leave  early,  in  spite 
of  her  friend's  too  obvious  signals  to  stay.  When  she 
had  gone  Lionel  turned  to  Rhoda. 

"  Rhoda,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to  tell  you.  This 
business  isn't  a  success."  She  did  not  answer.  She 
tossed  back  a  fold  of  hair,  so  that  she  might  see  better. 
She  looked  him  in  the  face.  He  waited  for  a  word  from 
her ;  none  came.  She  waited  as  though  he  had  not  yet 
stated  his  case. 

"  I  doubt  if  I  can  keep  it  going,"  he  went  on,  dashed 
by  her  callousness.  "  I  am  putting  in  all  I  have." 

"  That's  unfortunate,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  .  ;  . 
But  of  course  we  shan't  if  you've  put  in  all  you  have." 

"Shan't  what?" 

"  I  was  looking  forward  so  to  getting  to  Florence  this 
April." 

"  Rhoda.     I  may  be  able  to  pull  it  round." 

"  Are  you  going  to  take  me  to  Florence?  " 


THE  STREET  OF  TQ|)AY          325 

"  Florence  will  be  impossible/' 

"  Oh/'  she  faced  him,  pitiless.  "  Then  you  will  have 
lost  all  you  put  in?  "  He  nodded,  gulping. 

"All  we  have?" 

"  Most/' 

"  Then  we  are  ruined?  " 

11  Not  yet.     Things  may  mend." 

"  Oh,  don't  shilly-shally  with  me.  You  mean  they 
won't  mend,  and  can't  mend.  The  long  and  the  short 
of  it  is,  we're  ruined.  What  do  you  propose  to  do  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer.  He  looked  at  her  steadily, 
wondering  if  she  could  feel  shame. 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do?"  she  asked  again. 
"  I've  a  right  to  know.  You  married  me.  I've  got  to 
suffer  if  you  choose  to  play  the  fool." 

"  Don't  talk  of  suffering,"  he  said.  "  You'll  have 
enough  to  eat  and  enough  to  put  on,  and  enough  to 
waste.  It's  a  question  of  those  boys  and  of  something 
I'd  set  my  heart  on." 

"  My  dear  Lionel,"  she  said,  moving  to  the  door, 
conscious  that  her  hair  gave  the  motion  queenliness. 
She  laughed  a  little  nervous  laugh.  "  My  dear  Lionel," 
she  said  again,  pausing  at  the  door,  with  a  stage  gesture, 
"  I  should  recommend  you  to  leave  your  romantic 
notions.  Marriage  and  social  regeneration  don't  agree." 
He  walked  up  to  her  and  looked  into  her  eyes.  "  Some 
day  you  women — "  he  began.  He  stopped,  fuming. 
"  Are  you  bubbles,  or  what?  "  After  that  their  wrath 
carried  them  over  the  brink  into  open  war. 


I 


CHAPTER  IX 

LIONEL  slept  little  that  night.  He  rose,  feeling  wretched. 
His  brain  ached.  He  felt  as  though  poison  were  running 
in  his  skull  instead  of  blood.  His  nerves  were  tortured 
to  a  loathing  of  life. 

As  he  sat  at  a  lonely  breakfast,  he  wondered  why 
some  people  delighted  in  life.  He  remembered  a  silly 
woman  who  had  said  in  his  hearing  that  "  life  is  good/' 
Life  good,  he  thought.  He  could  not  eat.  "  Life  is 
not  good,"  he  said  angrily.  "  Life  is  struggle  dashed 
with  fever."  He  was  worried  by  his  letters.  Things 
seemed  to  tangle  themselves  before  his  eyes.  He  saw 
them  tangle.  The  sight  of  their  tangling  gave  his  brain 
a  horrible  flopping  feeling.  It  was  as  though  he,  the 
man,  the  spirit,  were  let  fall  suddenly  by  a  brain  no 
longer  strong  enough  to  support  him.  He  was  unable 
to  force  his  brain  to  arrest  the  tangling.  Like  most 
men,  he  was  little  used  to  ill-health.  He  concluded,  as 
most  men  do  when  their  heads  hurt,  that  he  was  going 
mad.  He  had  once  met  a  madman.  He  had  been 
watching  a  cricket  match  in  the  Midlands,  when  a  wild- 
eyed  man,  shambling  up  in  a  hurry,  began  to  talk  to 
him.  The  wild-eyed  man  broke  off,  at  times,  to  applaud 
a  late  cut.  Lionel  noticed  that  the  man  never  clapped 
for  a  drive.  He  cared  only  for  the  neat,  nicking,  slicing 
nicety  of  the  late  cut.  "  Oh,  I  could  tell  you  a  tale," 
the  man  said.  "  I  could  tell  you  a  tale.  You  know,  I 
have  been  mad.  You  don't  know  what  I  suffered  when 
I  was  mad." 

Lionel  thought  of  madness.  Would  it  be  such  a  hell 
as  sanity?  To  be  comfortably,  hopelessly  mad,  in  a 
326 


THE  STREET  OF  TOJDAY          327 

padded  cell.  To  be  imperial  Caesar,  for  ever  laughing 
at  a  straw.  To  be  outside  the  machine  of  the  world, 
out  of  all  the  gritting  cog-wheels.  To  be  outwardly  a 
shaven  fool,  inwardly  a  god  upon  a  comet.  He  rolled 
a  cigarette.  Mad  or  dead.  Death.  To  be  extinct. 
What  happens  to  the  blown-out  flame?  He  lit  his 
cigarette.  The  match  glowed;  the  glowing  died;  the 
head  dropped.  "  Even  we,  even  so."  Naldrett  had 
said  that  all  the  great  things  of  life  enter  the  soul  in 
sleep.  When  the  body  drops,  when  the  flame  is  blown 
to  its  invisible  essence,  what  comes,  what  happens? 
"What  dreams?" 

"  Save  me  from  dreams,"  he  said.  "  Dreams. 
They're  the  red  rags  which  keep  the  bull  of  the  mind 
from  horning  folly  dead.  I  want  power.  Power  to 
change  the  world.  O  God,  I  want  to  make  the  world 
fine.  Give  me  a  little  red  blood  upon  my  brain." 

God  had  given  China  tea  in  a  teapot.  Lionel  sipped 
a  last  cup,  sucking  in  cigarette  smoke  between  the  sips. 
Afterwards  he  drove  to  the  office  in  a  taxi-cab.  He 
noticed  an  affiche:  "  Great  strike  of  Newsboys,  exclu- 
sive." 

It  has  been  said  that  "  misfortunes  never  come 
singly."  It  is  partly  true.  Misfortune  shakes  the 
nerve,  so  that  little  things,  not  minded  in  a  state  of 
health,  hurt  like  misfortunes.  Lionel  had  a  bad  day  at 
the  office.  There  were  letters,  hints,  accounts.  They 
all  told  the  same  tale.  Snip  Snap  was  failing.  He  sat 
at  his  desk,  staring  blankly  at  his  letters.  He  was  not 
thinking.  Thoughts  from  outside  his  brain  came  in 
and  hurt.  It  was  as  though  the  evil  imaginings  of  his 
enemies  were  wasps  which  had  the  power  to  enter  in  to 
sting. 

Miss  Coleman  entered.  "  May  I  speak  to  you,  Mr. 
Heseltine?  "  she  asked. 

He  did  not  hear  her.     He  had  a  vivid  picture  in  his 


328          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

'*•  - 

mind  of  Rhoda  standing  in  the  sun,  glowing.  He  was 
so  wretched  that  he  could  have  abased  himself  to  Rhoda, 
knelt  to  her,  even,  asking  her  to  make  it  up.  If  she 
were  beaten,  he  was  beaten,  too.  Two  beaten  souls 
should  be  gentle  to  each  other.  They  would  under- 
stand, being  beaten.  They  might  go  on  together. 
Might  come,  in  the  end,  to  life.  But  why  go  over  it  all 
again  ?  What  is  she  ?  he  asked.  The  beautiful,  charm- 
ing woman,  delicate  and  delightful,  accomplished,  ex- 
pensive, all  on  the  surface.  Below  the  surface,  nothing. 
Selfishness,  perhaps,  pretentiousness,  tactlessness,  want 
of  all  nobleness,  want  of  everything  except  the  deadness 
of  the  deeply  vulgar.  She  was  the  American  spirit 
cropping  out  in  another  place.  England  was  surely 
rotten.  A  longing  came  to  him  to  mass  all  the  strength 
of  England  against  that  death,  wherever  found.  To 
knock  the  skulls  of  the  chatterers. 

"  We  were  fine.  We  were  fine/'  he  said.  "  We  were 
fine  in  the  eighties,  before  America  came  in." 

"What  were  you  saying?"  Miss  Coleman  asked. 
She  had  been  standing  quietly,  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 
She  knew  that  he  had  the  power  of  passing  into  a 
chamber  of  his  brain,  out  of  hearing  of  the  world.  He 
roused  himself.  He  turned,  wearily. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Meredith,"  he  said.  "  You've 
read  Meredith?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I've  read  him  all."  He  pulled 
up  a  chair  for  her  without  stirring  from  his  seat.  She 
sat. 

"  We  were  fine,  when  he  wrote,"  he  said.  "  I  wonder 
if  we're  done."  He  looked  at  her  fine,  strong  face.  She 
had  a  straight  sensitive  mouth.  Her  eyes  were  honest. 
She  was  fine.  It  came  to  him  suddenly  that  accom- 
plishments are  very  poor  things.  A  good  strong,  whole- 
some body,  and  the  power  of  caring  for  work  and  people. 
The  rest  is  all  fever.  No.  Good  Lord.  It  is  the 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-1MY          329 

American  varnish  which  covers  rottenness.  Miss  Cole- 
man  noted  the  weariness  of  his  eyes. 

"  No.  Of  course  we're  not  done/'  she  said,  smiling. 
"  We're  only  just  beginning.  We  wear  out  a  machine 
once  a  century.  We  get  too  big  for  our  cradles.  You 
know,  you're  all  wrong,  Mr.  Heseltine.  You  think  it's 
the  life  which  wears  out.  It  isn't,  it's  the  machine." 

"  Yes.  You're  right,"  he  said.  He  was  not  sure  of 
it.  He  tried  to  think  of  it.  His  mind  was  too  weary 
for  thought.  He  saw  her  point  fading  away  before  him 
as  he  advanced  to  grasp  it. 

"  You  want  to  speak  to  me?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about 
the  Distributors  Associated." 

"What  about  them?"  She  glanced  towards  the 
door.  It  was  shut. 

"  Well,  begin,"  he  said.  "  They're  starting  an 
opposition  scheme  and  want  to  nobble  my  staff.  Is 
that  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lionel.  He  stared  dully  at  the  brass  on 
the  catch  of  his  desk.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking  hard. 
He  was  thinking  that  the  brass  needed  cleaning.  "  I 
noticed  that  the  staff  stared  hard  at  me,"  he  said.  "  So 
they  think  I'm  done,  do  they?  " 

Miss  Coleman  was  touched  by  his  defeat.  There  was 
bitterness  as  well  as  weariness  in  his  voice. 

"  It's  going  very  well  in  the  provinces,"  she  said. 
Quickly  she  saw  that  that  was  not  what  troubled 
him. 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  them  leaving  you,  Mr. 
Heseltine,"  she  said.  "  You've  been  too  kind  to  us." 

"Kind?"  he  said.  "Good  Lord."  He  grinned. 
"  I've  sweated  the  lot  of  you.  You,  too." 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Heseltine." 

"  So  they're  starting  an  opposition  paper,  are  they?  " 


330         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

he  thought.  "  And  part  of  the  fun  is  to  rob  me  of  my 
staff  when  I  least  expect  it."  His  mind  was  bitter. 

"  They're  quite  right,  Miss  Coleman,"  he  said.  "  Snip 
Snap's  not  a  success." 

"  Oh,  but  it  will  be,  Mr.  Heseltine."  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes.  He  shook  his  head. 

"  The  Brigade's  a  millstone  round  it."  Her  mouth 
quivered.  A  month  or  two  ago  the  sight  of  her  tears 
would  have  made  him  swear.  Worry  had  gentled  him. 

"  And  one  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence,"  he  said, 
whimsically.  He  was  braced.  He  took  his  hat  and 
coat.  "  I  must  go  out,"  he  said.  "  Meanwhile,  there's 
nothing  to  cry  over.  I  wouldn't  bother  about  it. 
Whether  I  sink  or  swim,  there'll  be  work  for  you  here, 
for  at  least  another  year.  Write  to  Stantons  about  the 
plates,  Miss  Coleman.  Oh,  and  tell  William  to  get  some 
Pinker,  I  can't  have  this  brass  in  this  state."  He 
went  out. 

He  turned  down  Norfolk  Street  to  the  Embankment. 
The  memory  of  having  walked  there  once  with  Mrs. 
Drummond  gave  him  a  little  peace.  He  walked  along 
the  Embankment  hardly  noticing  what  he  was  doing. 
Below  the  statue  of  Brunei  he  realised  that  he  had  come 
from  the  office  to  get  away  from  his  work.  He  seemed 
to  be  living  on  half  a  dozen  different  planes  at  once. 
He  was  spending  much  of  himself  on  each  plane.  He 
kept  telling  one  of  his  half  a  dozen  selves  that  he  did  not 
care  about  Rhoda.  Then  all  five  selves  would  thrust 
him  with  a  pang  of  hell  into  the  sixth.  He  knew,  then, 
that  he  did  care.  He  looked  at  Brunei.  Brunei  made 
blocks,  all  exactly  alike.  It  was  in  Macaulay.  But 
Rhoda  was  unlike  every  one.  Rhoda 's  colour,  her  hair, 
her  way.  She  walked  in  his  brain,  delicately  dressed. 
He  saw  her  turn  to  him.  He  saw  the  veil  of  the  blue 
of  the  devil's  bit  scabious.  He  had  a  glimpse  of  the 
beauty  which  had  made  the  world  his  at  moonrise  on 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          331 

Ponton  Hill.  He  realised,  as  one  does  in  states  of  mental 
exaltation,  whether  they  are  caused  by  pain  or  joy,  the 
pathos  of  the  tragedy.  This  was  happening  in  his  life. 
This  fever  was  his  life.  And  life  is  the  murmur  of  a  bee 
from  one  open  window  to  another.  He  would  be  old 
soon.  Rhoda  would  be  old.  They  would  be  bald, 
toothless,  bloodless.  Their  jaws  would  drop.  They 
would  stiffen.  The  blinds  would  be  drawn  down. 
Washers  would  come;  layers  out.  Oh,  indignity  of 
death.  Then  out,  under  the  blankness  of  board,  to  the 
tidding  of  a  lump  of  earth.  Then  shovelsful,  shovelsful, 
blackness,  blankness,  for  ever.  For  ever.  Oh,  against 
that,  youth  with  the  quick  blood  should  join  hands. 
There  should  be  a  league.  How  can  one  face  age  with- 
out a  memory  of  youth?  How  go  down  among  the 
bones  of  earth  without  the  knowledge  of  the  soul? 
Rhoda  and  he  should  be  singing  a  song  together,  if  only 
to  have  a  tune  to  hum  when  age  broke  the  voice  with 
coughing. 

He  would  make  that  plain  to  Rhoda.  She  would  see. 
They  had  gone  all  wrong,  somehow.  Their  nerves  had 
been  racked.  Only,  that  time  at  Ponton.  And  another 
day,  white  like  the  first,  in  a  boat  on  the  Drowse.  They 
had  moved  under  alders,  in  the  smell  of  meadowsweet, 
near  a  mill.  Water  trickled  over  the  fall.  He  had 
minded  the  noise  of  water  ever  since.  A  heron  stood, 
watching,  as  though  he  were  wise  and  the  water  truth. 
Grey-blue  the  heron.  Grey-blue,  and  legs  like  stalks. 
A  kingfisher  flashed.  Rhoda  had  told  him  that  she  had 
not  known  what  caring  meant.  "  I  was  a  girl  till  you 
came.  There,  dear,  I'm  a  woman.  I  can't  tell  you 
more." 

What  had  happened  since  those  days?  Sickness, 
worry,  life's  destroyers.  They  must  make  a  pact  to 
bear  with  each  other.  Life  was  dark  for  a  moment. 
The  river  was  going  through  a  culvert.  It  would  come 


332          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

out  into  the  sun  again.  They  should  row  swiftly  to  the 
sun,  not  drag  the  arches  on  to  them.  Suppose  he  were 
to  take  her  away.  Not  to  Pudsey;  that  would  be  bitter. 
But  to  some  other  beautiful  place.  A  place  in  Shrop- 
shire, a  place  in  the  Cotswolds.  They  would  see  the 
hills  again.  He  knew  the  hills.  In  the  summer  the 
stones  are  sun-bleached,  and  the  air  smells  of  honey. 
There  is  honey  under  the  ground.  In  the  winter  one 
sees  the  fell,  the  cold  white  of  the  cloud,  the  cold  blue 
of  the  sky,  the  earth  like  a  man  asleep.  They  could 
take  hands  there.  It  would  be  peaceful.  Thatch,  the 
teams  jangling,  plod  of  beasts.  Frost  on  the  window, 
geese  grazing,  an  apple-loft,  the  noise  of  pigeons.  They 
could  make  up  their  minds.  They  could  make  up  their 
lives.  Ponton  was  only  a  foretaste.  The  human  soul 
contains  all  things,  can  do  all  things.  Two  human  souls. 
Surely  two  human  souls,  pledged  to  make  their  life  on 
earth  happy,  vowed  to  do  it,  resolved  to  do  it,  can  do  it, 
could  do  it.  Hard  at  first,  perhaps.  An  effort,  a  strain. 
She  was  beautiful.  He  could  forgive.  He  was  interest- 
ing. She  could  endure.  It  was  worth  it.  It  meant  all 
life  to  both  of  them.  And  at  the  end,  in  a  few  months' 
time,  when  they  had  come  to  the  knowledge,  when  they 
understood,  how  childish  this  trouble  would  seem.  And 
now  it  was  wrecking  their  lives,  destroying  them.  Life 
is  worth  an  effort.  There  is  no  life  without  effort. 
They  must  make  the  effort.  Only,  there  was  his  work. 
How  give  that  up  ?  It  was  giving  him  up.  Yes.  But 
with  Rhoda  at  his  side  he  would  turn  the  fight  the  other 
way.  It  was  the  doubtful  instant,  when  the  rally 
succeeds.  And  in  the  end,  when  he  had  done  his  work ; 
when  his  machine  for  moulding  minds  had  made  the  mob 
cry  for  life  as  loudly  as  it  cries  for  blood.  Oh,  it  was  a 
big  thing,  a  big  thing.  Rhoda  must  see  that.  She 
must  be  with  him. 

He  saw  his  study.     He  saw  the  two  heads  together 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          333 

over  the  desk.  He  felt  the  quick  mind  with  his,  helping 
his.  That  determined  him.  "  I  must  go  to  her,"  he 
said.  In  a  motor  cab  he  thought  of  the  happy  life.  A 
man's  life,  no  shadow  of  a  woman  in  it.  A  cavalry  of 
comrades  going  over  a  llano  towards  the  Andes.  Camp- 
fires  at  night,  horses  picketed,  stars.  In  the  morning, 
a  cantering  on,  breasting  the  air,  towards  the  Andes; 
but  never  reaching  the  Andes,  going  on  for  ever.  Oh, 
the  content  of  cantering.  The  silver  jingling,  the  horses 
proud,  going  over  the  llano  for  ever.  At  times  a  Gaucho 
spurring  forward  would  scream,  swinging  his  bolas.  All 
the  cavalry  would  cry.  A  thunder  of  hoofs,  clods  aloft, 
scrapes,  ponchos,  shouts.  "  All  very  well,"  he  thought, 
"  but  I  would  be  happier  with  my  girl."  He  let  himself 
in  with  his  latch-key. 

Lionel  glanced  at  the  umbrella-rack.  The  umbrella 
with  the  Egyptian  handle  was  there.  Rhoda  had  not 
gone  out.  He  had  often  chaffed  her  about  the  handle. 
It  was  a  symbol.  Some  day  he  must  look  up  Egyptian 
symbols.  All  wisdom  is  hidden  in  symbol.  All  wisdom 
has  been  discovered;  little  has  been  applied  to  life; 
some  has  been  forgotten.  Egyptian  magic.  A  control- 
ling of  agencies  by  mental  disciplines.  He  must  study 
magic.  He  and  Rhoda.  He  tapped  at  Rhoda's  door. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  am,"  he  said.  (<  Can  I  speak  to  you?  Can  I 
come  in?  "  He  heard  her  cross  the  room  to  the  door. 
The  key  turned.  She  held  open  the  door  for  him  to 
enter.  Though  she  said  "  Good-morning  "  the  wrath 
in  her  heart  made  an  icy  mail  about  her.  He  felt  it. 
He  could  not  have  drawn  near  to  kiss  her.  No  man 
could.  Her  thought  was,  "  So  he  comes  to  make  it  up. 
He  comes  too  late.  That  should  have  been  this  morning 
before  he  went  to  the  office."  Her  bitterness  made  a 
false  reason  for  itself.  "  I  am  not  to  be  second  to  his 
work."  It  steeled  her  heart  against  him. 


334          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

She  had  expected  him  early  that  morning.  When  he 
passed  to  the  bath-room,  she  was  waiting  for  him.  She 
wanted  him.  She  might,  perhaps,  have  pardoned,  had 
he  submitted.  He  was  in  the  wrong.  He  ought  to 
have  come.  She  had  waited  and  waited.  The  night 
had  not  been  so  pleasant  to  her.  He  must  have  known 
that  she  was  waiting.  But  no,  he  had  gone  out.  His 
feet  passed  her  door;  re-passed.  He  had  not  thought 
her  worth  the  trouble.  His  work  had  claimed  him. 

The  bitterness  of  her  wrath  gave  another  sweetness 
to  her  inner  life.  He  could  not  share  that.  He  had 
no  part  in  that.  She  rang  for  Susan.  She  would 
breakfast  in  bed.  The  clang  of  the  door  as  he  went  out 
made  her  clap  her  hands.  She  was  alone.  She  was 
free.  The  freedom  thrilled  her  with  a  delightful  sense 
of  naughtiness.  She  was  free  for  a  whole  day  of  delicious 
brooding.  As  she  sponged  her  face  and  did  her  hair, 
she  tightened  her  lips  with  disdain  at  the  thought  of 
Lionel.  "  How  nasty  men  are  when  they  are  tired. " 
The  hot  water  was  delightful.  She  felt  that  she  was 
sponging  away  that  nasty  memory.  "  His  eyes  were 
all  cod-fishy  and  bloodshot. "  An  ounce  of  civet,  good 
apothecary. 

After  she  had  breakfasted  in  bed,  she  dressed  with 
extreme  care,  as  though  the  man  in  her  mind  were 
coming  to  lunch  with  her.  When  her  room  was  ready 
for  her,  she  locked  herself  within.  There  was  a  good 
fire.  She  sat  before  it,  feeling  many  delights.  The 
delight  of  freedom,  the  delight  of  being  beautifully 
dressed,  the  delight  of  warmth.  But  all  ministered  to 
the  supreme  delight.  The  supreme  delight  was  to  brood 
over  Colin.  They  walked  the  world  together  in  her 
brain.  She  rose  to  greet  him.  She  rose  to  greet  him 
in  many  rooms,  in  many  different  dresses.  Dear  eyes, 
dear  face,  and  great  strong  hands.  Oh,  the  welcome. 
How  she  drew  him  to  sit  beside  her,  helped  him  to  shine. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          335 

How  he  noticed  what  she  wore,  and  praised  it  and  deli- 
cately touched  it.  They  rode  together  over  the  hills 
into  lands  where  no  one  would  ever  find  them.  The 
horses  drew  side  by  side.  It  was  sunset.  They  were 
at  a  castle  door.  What  was  within  the  castle?  A 
secret  needing  two  words.  "  Rhoda."  "  Colin."  Ah, 
and  what  a  giving  of  hearts  in  those  two  words.  Or 
they  were  alone,  by  firelight,  at  twilight,  in  some  old, 
old  house  where  the  clock  was  ticking.  It  had  all  been 
different.  They  were  each  other's,  for  ever  each 
other's.  His  dark  eyes  were  looking  down  at  her. 

"  Rhoda,  my  beloved." 

"  Oh,  Colin." 

"  Rhoda.     Are  you  happy  ?  " 

"Happy,  Colin?" 

"  Kiss  me,  Rhoda." 

"  My  own." 

Or  she  was  coming  back  to  him  after  an  absence. 
Coming  back  at  night,  looking  out  for  the  light  in  the 
window,  seeing  him  black  against  the  light  as  he  looked 
out.  Ah,  if  it  might  have  been.  O  Colin,  if  I  had 
only  known. 

It  was  bitter ;  but  there  was  pleasure  in  it.  So  much 
of  her  life  was  lived  for  him.  He  had  liked  that  way  of 
doing  her  hair.  She  had  done  it  for  him  in  that  way  to- 
day. She  wore  a  little  brooch  which  he  had  praised. 
She  held  a  book  which  he  had  given  her.  Meredith's 
Poems.  There  was  an  inscription  by  him.  "  Rhoda 
Derrick,  from  her  friend  Colin  Maunsel,  June  4th  '07." 
He  wouldn't  have  written  "  her  friend  "  unless  the 
blood  were  singing  in  him.  She  kissed  the  inscription. 
He  must  have  kissed  it  too.  She  kissed,  very  fondly, 
the  little  photograph.  Her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes 
brimmed.  She  laid  the  photograph  in  the  crook  of  her 
right  arm,  so  that  she  might  kiss  it  there,  as  though 
she  held  him.  For  a  long  time  afterwards  she  sat  still, 


336          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

caressing  his  image  in  her  heart.  Dear  Colin.  Memories 
of  him  became  vivid  in  the  limelights  of  sentiment.  She 
lived  over  old  hours.  A  day  in  the  garden  with  him, 
playing  tennis.  A  dance  at  the  Compton  Maunsels. 
Ah,  that  dance,  and  the  white  she  wore.  They  sat  out 
a  Lancers  under  a  yew  in  the  light  of  a  Japanese  lantern. 
She  replayed  that  act  with  other  words,  sweeter  words. 

"  How  far  away  the  music  sounds/' 

"  My  music  is  not  far  away."  A  pause.  She  with 
head  turned  from  him,  the  air  electric,  the  blood  dizzy. 
Then  she, — 

"  I  think  the  waltz  is  beginning. " 

"  Our  waltz,  Rhoda.  The  waltz  of  Life.  You  my 
music  and  my  partner.  Rhoda.  Rhoda.  You  must 
know."  His  hands  caught  hers. 

Then  the  knocking  at  the  door.  Lionel  back.  Lionel 
asking  to  speak  with  her.  How  maddening.  She  went 
to  the  door  drawing  down  icy  blinds,  icy  shutters. 
Lionel  with  the  bloodshot,  cod-fishy  eyes,  after  Colin. 
If  he  had  touched  her  then  she  could  have  struck  him. 

They  faced  each  other.  "  He  shall  not  come  in 
here,"  she  thought.  Colin  sat  in  that  room.  His  book 
and  photographs  were  on  the  chair.  Lionel  should 
never  trespass  into  the  world  which  Colin  shared. 

"  I'll  be  out  in  a  minute,"  she  said,  coldly.  "  Put  a 
log  on  the  sitting-room  fire  and  draw  up  the  chairs." 
He  went  to  do  her  bidding.  She  locked  her  door  again 
with  a  little  bitter  smile  of  contempt.  She  changed  her 
clothes  in  desperate  haste.  She  entered  the  sitting-room 
resolved  to  make  him  sorry  that  he  had  left  his  office. 
He  was  standing  by  the  mantelpiece.  She  sat  down  so 
far  from  the  fire  that  he  could  either  draw  near  or  be 
forced  to  speak  at  her. 

"  So,"  she  said,  after  watching  him  swallow  once  or 
twice.  "  What  have  you  come  to  say?  " 

"  Rhoda,"  he  said.     "  Can't  we  make  up  our  minds 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          337 

to  ...  to  make  our  lives  something  more  than  they've 
been."  He  waited  for  her  to  help  him  out.  She  was 
still.  She  was  not  even  looking  at  him.  She  was  look- 
ing straight  across  the  room,  with  her  grey-blue,  glassy 
eyes.  He  had  never  seen  eyes  with  so  little  life  in  them. 
The  inhuman,  good  or  bad,  have  often  just  such  eyes. 
There  is  an  incompleteness  in  lighter  shades. 

"  Well/'  she  said.  He  began  again,  as  she  knew  he 
would. 

"  Rhoda.  We've  got  to  look  at  things.  We've  got 
to  face  life.  I  want  you  to  help.  I  know  I've  not 
made  you  happy.  Only  it's  all  been  against  us.  If  we 
could  get  away.  Go  into  the  country.  Make  a 
pact." 

"  We  made  a  pretty  solemn  pact,  last  June,  one  would 
think,"  she  said,  bitterly. 

"  We  made  a  pretty  pact,"  he  said,  clutching  at  her 
words.  "  This  must  be  the  solemn  pact.  We're  not 
the  children  who  stood  up  at  the  altar  last  June." 

"  No,  we  are  not,"  she  answered.  "  So  being  grown 
up,  we're  to  go  into  the  country." 

11  Dear,  if  we  could  go  to  some  peaceful  place." 

"  Don't  call  me  dear,"  she  said  rudely.  "  It  sounds 
ironic." 

"  Don't  make  it  so." 

"  And  I  am  to  learn  my  duties  in  the  peaceful  place. 
Study  your  whims.  Pretend  to  love  you.  Come,  at 
last,  to  your  ways  of  thinking.  Make  you  happy,  as  it 
is  called." 

"  No,  Rhoda.  I'm  asking  you  to  make  a  clean  slate. 
To  give  me  another  chance  to  make  you  happy."  She 
looked  at  him. 

"  How  clean  a  slate  do  you  propose  to  make  for  me? 
I  am  flesh  and  blood.  I've  got  a  heart  and  soul.  I'm 
beautiful.  I  could  have  married  anybody.  Many  men 
wanted  to  marry  me.  I  married  you.  I  thought  you 

Y 


338          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

cared.  I  thought  you  cared  enough  to  respect  my 
point  of  view  about  certain  things.  I  am  myself  and 
my  own.  And  I  am  proud  of  myself.  Or  I  was  till  I 
learned  your  loathsomeness.  Ever  since  I  married  you 
I've  loathed  myself.  I'm  not  your  wife.  Your  work  is 
your  wife.  Your  work.  A  rag  which  I  wouldn't  have 
in  the  house.  I  am  the  housekeeper  who  is  to  degrade 
herself  to  you  in  your  spare  moments  so  that  you  may 
have  children.  Children.  Oh."  She  shuddered.  Her 
face  worked.  "  Do  you  know  what  children  mean  to 
me?  If  I  thought  I  were  going  to  have  a  child,  I'd 
kill  myself.  My  Mother  had  children.  She  had  nine 
children  in  eleven  years.  They  all  died  except  me  and 
Jane.  I  was  the  last.  I  killed  her.  I  got  my  love  of 
children  from  my  Mother.  It's  in  my  blood  and  in  my 
bone  and  in  my  marrow.  I'm  not  going  through  what 
my  Mother  went  through."  She  shuddered  again  with 
physical  repulsion.  It  was  true.  Something  of  her 
Mother's  suffering  had  poisoned  her.  Lionel  was 
moved.  He  understood. 

"  It's  hard  to  get  the  truth  from  a  woman,"  he  said. 
"  You  ought  to  have  told  me." 

"  Women  pay  a  big  price  for  their  trust  in  the  male 
understanding. ' ' 

"  The  devil  gets  the  money,  then,"  he  answered. 
"  Well.  Cut  that  away,  then.  Even  so,  Rhoda,  there's 
a  possible  life  together." 

"  Till  death  do  us  part,"  she  quoted.  She  saw  him 
grown  old.  She  saw  the  results  of  twenty  years  of 
wrangling.  Two  old  bitter  silent  people  facing  each 
other  over  the  fire.  "  Are  you  going  to  give  up  your 
work?  "  she  asked. 

"  My  work's  my  effort  to  justify  my  being  here  with 
a  little  power." 

"  It's  not  the  work  of  a  gentleman,"  she  answered. 
He  moved  his  mouth  at  that. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          339 

"  There  are  better  things  than  gentlemen,"  he 
answered. 

"  Not  for  husbands." 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  bitterness.  "  Not  for  women. 
Not  for  idle,  scented,  lying  women  who'd  see  the  world 
rot  rottener  than  they  make  it  rather  than  pawn  a  ring 
to  save  a  sister  from  the  streets." 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  like  that,"  she  said.  Both  were 
very  angry.  "  How  dare  you  talk  to  me  like  that?  " 
He  swallowed  down  his  wrath. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  said.  "  Suppose  I  give  up  my 
work.  I'm  not  going  to  be  idle.  Suppose  I  qualify. 
It's  the  only  thing  left.  Qualify  and  buy  a  practice? 
I  should  be  thirty-five  by  that  time.  And  my  five  best 
years  gone  in  being  a  schoolboy." 

"  That  would  be  better,"  she  said.  She  spoke  gently, 
to  prick  him. 

"  No,"  he  said,  gloomily.  "  No."  He  walked  to  the 
window.  On  the  window  seat  were  some  tiny  memo- 
randa books  bound  in  green  leather.  He  tapped  the 
table  with  one  of  them. 

"  Put  that  book  down,  do,"  she  said,  pettishly.  "  I 
cannot  endure  to  see  you  fidget."  He  turned  to  her. 

"  Rhoda,"  he  said.  "  I  will  give  up  my  work  for  a 
time.  Dunning  can  take  charge.  Will  you  come  away 
with  me?  Let's  try."  He  stared  out  of  the  window. 
She  shut  her  eyes. 

She  saw  the  life  h  deux  in  a  hired  cottage  in  South 
Devon  or  Cornwall.  She  knew  then  that  the  proposal 
came  too  late.  The  work  which  had  been  her  rival  was 
now  her  opportunity.  It  gave  her  peace  from  him.  It 
gave  her  leisure  for  her  dreams.  She  could  dream  of 
Colin  all  day  long.  And  that  was  sweet  to  her.  She 
had  not  realised  how  sweet.  She  could  not  give  up 
that  intimate  dream-life.  Oh!  She  saw  that  life  in 
the  cottage.  Life  at  close  quarters,  all  the  round  of  the 


340         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

clock.  He  would  be  at  her  side  till  she  loathed  the 
sight  of  him.  And  every  moment  of  dream  broken  in 
upon  by  a  question.  "  What  are  you  thinking  of?" 
"  You  look  very  thoughtful/1  Great  muddy  boots 
clumping  in  her  lily  garden. 

"  And  that  is  what  you  propose  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  will  leave  my  work." 

"  The  proposal  comes  with  a  bad  grace,"  she  said. 
She  spoke  with  a  callousness  which  would  have  amused 
her  had  she  been  less  angry.  She  meant  her  tone  to 
nettle  him  to  ask  why.  It  had  that  effect. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"  You've  not  yet  apologised  to  me,"  she  said,  "  for 
your  behaviour  last  night.  When  you  have  made  some 
amends  for  last  night,  it  will  be  time  enough."  She 
paused,  while  she  selected  a  barb  for  the  last  arrow. 
"  Time  enough  for  me  to  weigh  my  prospects  as  a 
partner  in  the  mutual  solace  company." 

She  watched  him.  She  felt  a  deep  contempt  for  him. 
He  thought  that  she  would  desert  her  heart's  image  at  a 
word  from  him.  Yet  she  was  interested.  What  would 
he  do? 

He  left  the  window.  He  walked  slowly  past  her  to 
the  door.  She  could  see  that  he  was  in  a  blazing  rage. 
He  flung  the  door  open,  with  his  usual  outburst  of 
"  Good  Lord,"  spoken  as  though  each  word  were  a  rat 
which  he  worried  before  flinging.  Susan  was  in  the 
passage,  cleaning  the  brass  on  the  front  door.  Lionel 
walked  towards  the  front  door.  Rhoda  had  not  done 
with  him. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  called.  He  gave  no 
heed.  She  rose  from  her  chair.  She  stood  in  the  door- 
way looking  after  him. 

"  Lionel,"  she  cooed,  "  where  are  you  going?  "  He 
had  to  answer  before  Susan. 

"  Office,"  he  said,  choking. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          341 

"  You'll  be  in  to  dinner?  " 

"  No." 

"  Bad  boy,"  she  said.  He  did  not  answer.  He 
looked  back  at  her.  He  was  standing  by  the  half-open 
door.  Susan  stood  behind  the  door.  She  had  a  cloth 
in  her  hand.  She  was  shoving  aside  her  tin  of  polish 
with  her  foot.  Lionel  looked  straight  back.  His  face 
was  very  weary.  He  looked  at  her  as  though  she  were 
a  mare  for  sale.  His  thought  was  "  Only  maniacs  are 
generous  to  women."  He  flamed.  In  the  motor  cab 
which  took  him  back  to  the  office  he  preached  from  that 
text.  "  The  vulgarity  of  the  incomplete,"  he  said. 
"  To  be  generous  to  that."  The  cause  of  his  fury 
played  a  few  triumphal  bars  upon  the  piano.  She 
smiled  a  haggard  smile  at  herself  in  the  glass  A 
thought  of  what  her  thought  would  be,  could  Colin 
enter,  made  her  blush.  The  passion  in  her  fired  her 
longing.  Her  thought,  travelling  long  miles,  came  at 
last  to  the  heart  of  an  idle  man  as  he  sat  under  cover 
waiting  for  pigeons.  It  knocked.  It  entered.  It  was 
welcomed.  A  little  rosy  thought  went  back  with  a 
message. 


CHAPTER  X 

MORE  worry  waited  for  Lionel  at  the  office.  He  found 
Carnlow  and  Dunning  examining  half  a  dozen  of  the 
Brigade  boys.  The  boys  were  bleeding  and  muddy. 
They  seemed  to  have  been  roughly  handled. 

"  Here  you  are  at  last/'  said  Carnlow.  "  We've  been 
waiting  for  you." 

"What  is  it?"  said  Lionel,  to  one  of  the  boys. 
"  What's  the  matter,  Vandy?  " 

"  Bit  of  a  scrap,  sir.  They  was  calling  us  '  Black- 
legs.' The  Piccadilly  pitch  had  to  go  off  home." 

"  They  come  at  us  twenty  to  one,"  said  another  boy. 

"  Old  Snorty  cop  one  of  them  a  beauty,"  said  a  third. 
"  I  saw  'im  'olding  on  to  a  lamp-post,  or  'e'd  a  bin  dahn 
and  aht." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  others.  "  And  then  they  all  come 
at  us." 

"  It  was  all  them  newsboys." 

"  One  of  em  said,  '  We're  comin'  to  do  you  Blacklegs 
in.'  '  All  right,'  I  says.  It  'd  'ave  been  all  right  if 
they'd  got  one  of  us  down." 

"  Them  newsboys  it  was.  Like  what  they  call  the 
strikers." 

"  There's  been  more  or  less  of  this  mobbing  all  over 
the  West  End,"  said  Dunning. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is  that  the  evening  press  has  made  it 
out  that  we're  to  blame.  Here's  the  Post  Meridian." 
Carnlow  dismissed  the  boys,  and  handed  over  some 
evening  papers.  Lionel  read,  knitting  his  brows. 

"  The  antagonism,  which  has  amounted  in  some 
instances  to  actual  mobbing,  is  likely  to  increase  in  the 
near  future.  In  view  of  the  fact  that  the  Newsboys 

342 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          343 

United  are  striving  to  obtain  fair  rates  of  regular  pay, 
the  flaunting  of  the  Brigade  boys  at  each  street  corner 
can  only  be  regarded  as  heartless,  injudicious,  and 
provocative  to  the  last  degree.  The  authorities  should 
induce  Mr.  Heseltine  to  withdraw  his  men  for  a  time 
from  the  West  End  pitches." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lionel.  "  I  thought  that  would  come. 
You  needn't  stay,  Dunning.  Now,  Carnlow.  Well  see 
what  we  can  do." 

He  sat  down  with  Carnlow.  They  drafted  a  letter  to 
the  Newsboys  United.  They  sent  copies  of  the  letter  to 
the  Press. 

"  You  look  a  little  Londony,"  said  Carnlow.  "  Not 
over-doing  it,  I  hope." 

"  One  gets  run  down." 

"  How  is  my  sister-in-law?  "  said  Carnlow. 

"  Oh,  she's  very  well,  thanks."  They  lunched.  At 
the  next  table  a  fat  man  was  gorging  meat. 

"  Lunch  is  an  excellent  substitute  for  thought,"  said 
Lionel,  stirring  coffee.  "  I  suppose  all  things  are,  in  the 
absence  of  test." 

Outside,  in  the  Strand,  he  saw  two  of  the  boys  of  the 
Brigade  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen  ruffians  who  were 
calling  "  Blackleg."  As  usual  the  public  were  taking 
the  side  of  the  majority.  Lionel  took  his  place  beside 
the  boys.  He  stood  with  them  for  half  an  hour,  chaffing 
them.  The  act  of  standing  there,  in  the  midst  of  the 
evil  faces,  calmed  him.  Man  becomes  a  soul  when  he 
steps  from  the  mob  in  an  act  of  protest. 

As  he  stared  at  the  mob,  he  hardened  his  heart  against 
it.  He  hardened  his  heart  against  Rhoda.  It  was 
nothing  to  her  that  Englishmen  looked  thus,  behaved 
thus.  These  men,  jeering  at  the  minority,  carried 
evening  papers  in  which  the  words  "  an  Englishman's 
love  of  fair-play  "  occurred  at  least  once.  Their  play 
was  to  sit  once  a  week  on  a  plank,  smoking  cigarettes, 


344         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

while  paid  gymnasts  kicked  or  hit  a  ball.  There  they 
were.  All  a  town  against  three.  And  nobody  cared  a 
rush  that  all  Thermopylae  was  there  in  the  gutter. 
"1*11  not  giv2  up  my  work/'  Lionel  muttered,  "  for 
all  the  wives  in  Christendom.  Nor  for  all  the  middle- 
men in  Jewry." 

"  Toff.  Bleed'n  toff.  Snip  Snap.  Blackleg.  'At." 
The  names  followed  him  as  he  walked.  He  visited  a 
couple  of  dozen  of  the  Brigade's  pitches.  He  talked 
with  the  boys  who  had  been  mobbed.  Nothing  serious. 
But  the  mobbers  had  disturbed  Piccadilly.  There  would 
be  police  court  proceedings.  More  trouble,  more  worry, 
more  betrayal  of  mind.  Lionel's  heart  sank  as  he 
became  more  weary.  "  The  thing  gets  more  tangled 
every  minute,"  he  thought.  "  The  Brigade  will  end, 
and  that'll  be  the  end.  But  Rhoda.  How  is  that  to 
end?"  He  saw  no  end  to  the  trouble  with  Rhoda. 
Time  might  end  it.  Chance  might  end  it.  Perhaps 
that  was  marriage.  Perhaps  all  marriages  were  like 
that.  A  war  of  attrition.  Ah,  but  it  should  not  be  that. 
"  Have  I  been  fair  to  her?  "  he  wondered.  Women  are 
very  breakable.  Marriage  is  a  bomb-shell  dropped  on 
habits.  He  could  see  no  end.  "  Perhaps  that  is  the 
curse  of  modern  life,"  he  muttered.  "  The  men  are  too 
busy  with  great  things  and  the  women  too  idle  with 
little  things;  and  both  sorts  of  things  have  come  to 
mean  more  than  life,  and  so  life  goes  to  the  dogs." 

A  placard  caught  his  eye.  "  Winter  Exhibition  of 
Paintings  and  Drawings  by  Members  of  the  Society  of 
Thirty-six."  The  door  of  a  hall  stood  open.  Few 
were  entering.  He  entered,  paid  a  shilling,  received  a 
catalogue.  "  Who  are  the  Thirty-six,"  he  muttered. 
"  They  must  be  pretty  bad,"  he  thought,  "to  be  so 
many."  Art  is  made  by  cliques,  not  by  Academies. 
A  great  empty  room  stretched  away  to  an  inner  room. 
"  Big  enough  for  two  tennis-courts,"  he  thought.  The 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         345 

walls  were  hung  with  pictures.  In  the  middle  of  the 
room  were  red  velvet  settees,  new,  but  already  dusty. 
Half  a  dozen  people  lounged  along  the  walls.  A  critic 
made  pencil  notes  on  his  catalogue.  Lionel  went  to 
the  inner  room  and  sat  upon  a  settee  in  front  of  a  view 
of  Knocknarea. 

"  But  for  Benbulben  and  Knocknarea 
Many  a  poor  sailor  would  be  cast  away." 

"  I  wish  I  were  in  Ireland/'  he  thought.  His  mind 
gave  him  the  picture  of  wind-bitten  beeches  near  the 
sea.  He  saw  the  drenched  grass  glisten.  Though  all 
was  bright  and  green  it  was  all  misty  and  strange.  A 
metallic  creeper  on  the  white  wall  of  a  house,  blackbirds 
among  the  currants,  pattering  down  rain  drops,  a  field 
of  buccalaun  blazing.  He  saw  a  field  sloping  to  the  sea. 
There  were  rocks  in  it.  Cows  cropped  there,  though 
the  pasture  was  all  flags,  rushes,  meadowsweet,  short 
hardheads,  ferns.  There  was  another  flower  there,  too, 
beautiful  exceedingly.  It  was  the  devil's  bit  scabious, 
made  small  but  perfect  by  the  sea  wind.  Things  are  so 
related  in  this  world,  that,  when  one  thing  hurts,  all 
other  things  have  venom  for  us.  He  felt  a  little  quick 
bitter  stab  through  his  soul.  He  would  sleep  that  night 
in  the  same  home.  She  would  be  within  a  few  yards  of 
him  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall.  And  how  far  apart 
would  their  inner  selves  be  ? 

A  woman  was  looking  at  him,  noting  the  intense 
fatigue  of  his  face.  She  was  in  a  dark  grey  dress  rather 
like  a  dress  which  he  had  seen  before.  He  raised  his 
eyes  to  hers,  just  as  she  stepped  quickly  towards  him. 
It  was  Mrs.  Drummond. 

"  Mr.  Heseltine,"  she  said.     "  How  d'you  do  ?  " 

They  shook  hands. 

"  What  brings  you  here?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  was  fagged/'  he  said.     "  I  wanted  to  think." 


346         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  There's  not  much  distraction  here.'1  She  showed 
the  walls.  She  was  thinking  that  a  man  with  a  face  like 
this  needed  a  sea-voyage  or  a  mountain-top. 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  And  what  brings  you  here?  " 

"  I'm  looking  at  some  drawings  by  little  Polly  Hamlin. 
They're  down  there  in  the  corner." 

"  I  like  little  Polly,"  he  said.  "  Her  heart  is  so 
warm."  He  rose  from  his  lounge.  "  And  if  I  don't 
love  her,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  bitterly,  "  she'll 
do  me  no  harm." 

"  Show  me  Polly's  drawings,"  he  said.  They  looked 
at  them  together. 

"  Marriage  stops  that  kind  of  thing,"  he  said. 

"  Don't  be  so  bitter,"  she  answered. 

"  They  would  be  pathetic,  if  she  were  dead,"  he  said. 
He  said  it  gently.  It  struck  her  as  being  a  strangely 
feeling  thing  for  him  to  say.  But  what  had  made  this 
young  man  suddenly  sensitive  ?  The  soul  of  man,  like 
a  beefsteak,  must  be  beaten  tender.  The  world,  a 
rough  cook,  spoils  much  in  the  process. 

"  Let  us  sit,"  she  said.  "  You  look  tired."  They 
sat. 

"  How  is  your  wife  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  he  said.     "  Very  well,  thanks." 

"  Do  you  think  that  she  would  give  me  a  week-end 
at  Coin  St.  Michael's?"  she  asked.  It  occurred  to 
him  that  he  had  not  talked  with  a  cultivated,  intelligent 
woman  for  a  quarter  of  a  year.  He  loved  good  talk. 
Her  question  gave  him  a  mental  picture  of  a  talk  by 
the  fire  about  the  eighteenth  century.  She  would  play 
Brahms,  or  perhaps  Gliick.  Then  they  would  go  into 
the  garden  to  look  at  the  stars.  They  would  talk  of 
Arcturus  and  his  suns,  the  waste  of  the  competitive  in- 
dustrial system,  the  waste  of  this  great  kitchen  of  a  land 
where  the  cream  is  poured  down  the  sink  and  the  tap 
never  turned  to  flush  it.  And  if  they  went,  what  part 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          347 

would  Rhoda  play?  Rhoda!  The  clever  by  attain- 
ment are  at  war  with  the  clever  by  character.  "  And 
she  is  to  choose  the  intellects  mine  is  to  meet/'  he 
.  thought. 

He  roused  himself.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "  I  was 
wool-gathering. " 

"  Do  you  think  that  your  wife  would  come  to  us  for 
a  week-end?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  only  wish  we  could/'  he  said. 
"  But  I'm  engaged." 

"  I've  been  following  your  work,"  she  answered. 

"  Mrs.  Drummond,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  thinking  of 
you,  and  of  what  you  said  about  my  work.  I  value 
what  you  said  more  than  I  did.  I'll  say  this  about  my 
work.  Nothing  can  be  quite  bad  which  takes  out  of  a 
man  what  this  is  taking  out  of  me." 

"  You  never  told  me  of  the  Brigade,"  she  said.  "  You 
kept  that  back.  I  judged  on  faulty  evidence,  as  one 
always  does  when  one  leaves  instinct." 

"Then  you  like  the  Brigade?  I  like  you  for 
that." 

"  I  admire  the  Brigade.  I  thought  you  despised 
character." 

"  Character's  the  one  thing  worth  having,"  he  said. 
"  It's  everything. 

"  Art's  only  a  coloured  glass  for  the  peep  at  truth." 

"  And  Action's  a  day's  work  in  the  machine." 

"  Or  a  pebble  in  the  cogwheel." 

"  No  one  knows  which,"  he  said,  "  except  the  his- 
torians who  fight  about  it."  He  sighed. 

"  And  the  war  ?     How  does  the  war  go  ?  " 

To  any  other  person  he  would  have  lied,  with  an  un- 
moved face.  He  looked  at  Mrs.  Drummond. 

"The  war?"  he  said.  "I'm  learning  from  it.  I 
suppose  that's  a  good  thing." 

"  What  do  you  learn  from  war?  "  she  asked. 


348          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  That's  playing  into  my  hands,"  he  answered.  "  I'm 
a  cynic/' 

"I'll  forgive  you,"  she  said.  "I've  not  talked  with 
you  for  so  long.  There  would  be  a  freshness.  What 
do  you  learn?  " 

"  All  the  things  which  should  have  been  foreseen. 
All  the  croaks  for  which  one  hanged  the  croakers." 

"  Your  paper,"  she  said.     "  Is  that  doing  well?  " 

"I'd  lie  to  anybody  else,"  he  said. 

"  It  isn't,  then?  "     He  nodded,  staring  at  his  boots. 

"  I  like  being  trusted,"  she  said. 

"  I  was  too  proud,"  he  answered.  "  To  win  the  fool's 
heart  you  must  use  the  fool's  machine.  I  was  more 
on  your  side  than  we  thought,  Mrs.  Drummond.  The 
world  is  right.  Only  it  makes  one  so  mad.  I  had  to 
hit."  He  sighed,  still  staring  down.  "  I  only  made  it 
angry." 

"  I  shan't  regret  the  paper,"  she  said.  "  It  was 
wrong.  What  I  should  regret  would  be  the  turning  of 
your  mind  to  cynicism.  You  aren't  a  cynic  really.  No 
creative  mind  is  cynical.  You  must  not  let  the  defeat 
(if  it  be  a  defeat)  make  you  less  fine." 

"  They  won't  kill  me,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  come  up 
somewhere  else." 

"  Would  it  be  possible  for  me  to  meet  some  of  your 
boys?  "  she  asked.  "  I've  talked  with  some  of  them 
on  their  pitches.  I  should  like  to  know  more  of  them. 
They  seem  so  nice." 

He  winced.  It  was  a  sharp  reminder  that  the  Brigade 
might  have  to  be  disbanded.  All  those  boys  thrown  on 
the  streets,  forced  to  enlist,  forced  to  emigrate,  scat- 
tered, broken,  starved,  turned,  by  London's  machine, 
into  those  ruins  of  men,  who  pad  in  rags  after  cabs. 
Boys  with  such  courage  and  fun.  He  knew  how  they 
would  take  the  disbanding.  They  would  be  quiet. 
"  All  right,  Mr.  'Eseltine."  Then,  as  soon  as  he  had 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          349 

gone,  some  wag  would  call  "  Wot  O,  the  order  of  the 
boot/*  in  a  dead  silence.  Then  plans,  full  of  hope. 
"  Wot  price  the  lybour  exchynge."  All  of  them  hope- 
less, really.  How  would  five  hundred  get  jobs  in  a 
frosty  mid-winter  with  the  builders  out  ? 

"  They're  a  nice  lot,"  he  said  gloomily.  He  sighed. 
"  Good  Lord,"  he  broke  out  bitterly,  "  they're  a  grand 
lot.  Why  aren't  they  given  a  chance?  This  country 
wrecks  more  manhood  than  there  is  in  the  rest  of 
Europe,  and  knights  the  men  who  wreck  it." 

"  Oh,"  she  said.  "  You  don't  mean  that  there's  any 
chance  of  the  Brigade  ending?  " 

He  nodded.  "  It  may  come  to  that,"  he  said.  In 
his  mind  he  was  wondering  if  he  could  hang  on  for 
another  six  weeks,  to  get  them  clear  of  the  winter.  He 
saw  no  chance  of  it.  She  quickened  to  him. 

"  Coming  to  an  end?  "  she  said.  He  noticed  in  her 
face  a  look  of  judgment  made  tender  by  understanding. 
"  But  it  mustn't.  It's  your  work.  And  it's  so  splen- 
did." He  shook  his  head.  A  longing  to  be  justified 
from  human  lips  seemed  to  promise  a  salve  for  his 
misery. 

"  What  makes  you  so  eager  for  it  ?  " 

"  It's  what  I've  longed  for,"  she  said.  "  To  see  some 
of  the  waste  snatched  up  and  organised.  You've 
picked  those  boys  out  of  the  gutter  and  given  them 
souls.  She  thought  suddenly  of  the  bigness  of  the 
collapse.  "  And  there  are  five  hundred  of  them?  " 

"  It  was  a  big  thing  to  do  on  a  cracked  Correggio," 
he  said.  "  If  it  had  been  a  Titian  it  might  have  been  a 
success." 

"  It  will  be  a  success,"  she  said. 

"  Not  all  the  King's  horses  nor  all  the  King's  men," 
he  said.  The  utter  hopelessness  in  his  voice  stung  her. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  what  you  are  doing  ?  " 

"  Nothing.     I  can't  think  of  anything." 


350         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"And  how  long?" 

"  I'm  trying  to  get  through  the  winter." 

"  But  it  can  be  saved,"  she  cried.  "  All  the  good 
things  in  London  are  there  by  miracle.  And  the 
Brigade  is  the  beginning  of  so  much.  It's  so  important 
that  it  should  begin  from  below.  '  Getting  underneath 
to  lift/  instead  of  reaching  down  a  contemptuous  hand." 

"  With  a  nouveau  art  ring  on  it,"  he  muttered.  She 
mused.  Her  great  eyes  burned. 

"  Would  you  take  me  as  an  ally  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  a  penny,"  he  answered.  "  The  Brigade's  a 
bottomless  sack." 

"  Not  with  pence,"  she  said.     "  With  friendship." 

"  Give  me  the  friendship,"  he  said.  "  But  the 
Brigade's  done."  Weariness,  like  other  ailments,  makes 
bad  spectacles.  It  struck  her  that  like  most  sick  men, 
he  was  flattering  himself  with  misery. 

"  The  paper  may  be,"  she  said.  "  It  never  had  life." 
She  looked  at  him.  "  You're  worn  out,"  she  said. 
"  No  wonder  you're  doing  nothing."  His  bloodless  lips 
moved.  "  You  ought  to  be  resting." 

"  Rest?  "  he  said,  stupidly.  "  It's  not  that  which 
hurts.  It's  being  unable  to  think." 

"  I  know,"  she  answered.  "  As  though  the  head 
were  full  of  clear  soup." 

He  smiled.  "  That's  better,"  she  said.  "  Now,  tell 
me.  Are  you  alone  in  support  of  the  Brigade?  " 

"  Yes.     It's  my  Brigade." 

"  It  was  gambling?  " 

"  It  was  not,  Mrs.  Drummond.  It  was  a  boldness 
based  on  calculation." 

"  You  thought  your  papers  would  succeed?  " 

"  They'd  succeed  now,  if  I  could  only  settle  these 
middlemen." 

"  Yes.  But  the  papers  interested  you.  They  were 
the  important  things  to  you.  The  Brigade  was  only  a 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         351 

means  of  distribution.  And  the  Brigade's  alive.  That 
is  so  like  modern  thought.  It  makes  every  possible 
effort  to  escape  from  life.  Anything  rather  than  human 
beings." 

"  Any  thing, "  he  said.     "  Anything  in  the  world. " 
"  I  don't  say  that,"  she  said,  smiling.     "  But  the 
problem  is  to  save  five  hundred  youths.     You  wouldn't 
surrender  to  the  middlemen?     It's  a  personal  matter, 
your  Brigade  ?  " 

"  It  is.  I  won't  surrender.  They  couldn't  handle 
the  boys.  It  would  become  impersonal  at  once  and  lose 
all  its  value.  Business  men  can't  handle  men.  Busi- 
ness is  without  human  relations." 

"Could  not  you  surrender  the  papers,  then?  Give 
them  up.  And  then  make  an  effort  to  keep  on  the 
Brigade  as  newsboys." 

"  Calling  '  All  the  winners,'  and  smoking  fags?  " 
"  No.  Supplanting  all  that.  Now  is  the  time. 
Think  of  this  strike.  How  it  helps  you.  The  newsboys 
have  behaved  scandalously.  They've  put  themselves 
quite  out  of  Court.  The  papers  would  be  glad.  They'd 
be  thankful.  They'd  rush  to  welcome  you.  You  would 
give  them  a  reputable  means  of  distribution.  And  as 
the  Brigade  grew,  you  could  take  over  the  reputable 
members  of  the  present  system.  There  are  some,  I 
suppose.  Oh,  it  could  be  done." 

"  If  done  now  it  would  be  black-legging." 
"  Well.     '  It's  better  to  be  vile  than  vile-esteemed.' 
Your  boys  are  mobbed  anyhow." 
He  did  not  answer.     She  startled  him  with : 
"  Oh,  but  don't  you  see  that  that  will  lead  on  to  the 
very  thing  you  were  trying  for  ?    And  far  more  directly 
and  certainly.     Every  act  is  a  stone  in  the  pond.     The 
ripples  spread  to  the  banks.     I  see  the  Brigade  stretch- 
ing and  stretching,  from  town  to  town,  gathering  and 
growing.     And  taking  up  other  bits  of  life.     Organising 


352          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

them,  too.  It  will  be  an  army  for  the  distribution  of 
intelligence,  all  intelligence.  Books.  Science.  Art. 
You  would  have  a  monopoly  of  distribution.  You 
could  stop  the  distribution  of  unintelligence." 

"  That  would  be  worth  doing. " 

"  Everything's  worth  doing,  even  sin,  if  you  do  it 
with  your  life." 

"  Yes.  Even  commerce  becomes  almost  manly  when 
the  risk  is  real."  He  marvelled  at  the  life  in  her  face. 
A  few  women  have  that  look  of  thought  running  in  the 
blood,  of  spirit  so  mixed  with  the  flesh  that  the  touch  is 
spiritual.  She  was  following  the  run  of  ripples  as  they 
glimmered  on  into  the  unseen. 

"  Give  up  your  papers/'  she  said.     "  And  try  it." 

He  grinned  at  her.  "  I  don't  think  I  realised  life  as 
a  spirit  before  I  met  you,"  he  said.  "  I  used  to  think  it 
a  pathological  condition.  A  disease  recurring  on  the 
world's  skin.  I  wish  I'd  your  life." 

"  You  have,"  she  said.  "  Here  I  am,XIf  I  can  help, 
I  will." 

"  You  help  a  great  deal."     She  mused. 

"  That  would  save  the  Brigade,"  she  said.  "Go  to 
Sir  Pica  Galley.  You  would  have  five  thousand  men 
under  you  in  less  than  a  year." 

He  sighed,  thinking  that  the  optimism  of  women  is  a 
surprise  at  being  well  re-acting  on  a  want  of  knowledge. 
A  bald,  weary-looking  man  came  slowly  towards  them. 

"  It's  time,"  he  said.  "  We're  going  to  close  the 
gallery."  The  couple  rose  to  their  feet. 

"  It  might  save  it,"  said  Lionel.  They  walked  out  of 
the  gallery  into  a  long,  dusty  passage  hung  with  red  rep. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said.  "  Will  the  giving  up  of  the 
papers  mean  a  great  loss  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  stand  in  with  the  boys,"  he  said. 

"  You  may  be  ruined,  then?  " 

"Ruin?"  he  said.     "I  shan't  become  a  cab-tout. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         353 

Ruin  to  me  is  a  comfortable  thing.  You  wouldn't  cut 
me.  The  Hamlins  wouldn't  cut  me.  I  shall  go  on  as  I 
am  going.  As  long  as  I  don't  go  mad,  or  get  a  pain  too 
great  to  bear  with  dignity,  it  doesn't  matter  whether  I'm 
ruined  or  not.  It's  what  I  bring  the  world  that  matters, 
not  what  the  world  brings  me.  My  mind  and  my  point 
of  view  won't  be  ruined.  But,  O  Lord,  I  scraped  those 
boys  out  of  all  the  slums  of  the  city  tip.  And  there 
they  are,  as  fine  a  force  as  you'd  find,  after  half  a  year, 
going  to  be  pitch-forked  back  to  piggery." 

"  They  aren't  going  to  be.  We'll  save  them.  We'll 
ring  up  Sir  Pica  Galley  and  make  an  appointment." 

By  this  time  they  were  in  the  street.  He  led  the  way 
down  a  lane  into  a  square.  They  saw  branches  traced 
across  great  windows.  Lights  were  burning. 

"  It's  a  long  time  since  we  walked  together,"  he  said. 

"  Coin  St.  Michael  is  the  place  for  walking.  A  river 
with  kingfishers.  They'll  all  be  at  the  sea,  now.  And 
we've  a  Roman  camp  on  the  wold  above.  A  good  place 
for  thinking,  if  you  want  the  like  of  that.  You  look  as 
though  thought  had  hurt  you  lately.  You  must  go 
home,  now.  Talk  it  over." 

"I'll  talk  it  over."  He  was  wondering  if  the  final 
surrender  would  touch  Rhoda.  If  he  gave  up  the 
papers,  if  he  had  no  ties,  no  exhausting  ties.  Surely 
the  marriage  could  be  made  a  success.  He  remembered 
a  soldier's  proverb,  'Any  man  can  become  a  good  soldier 
if  he  gives  his  mind  to  it.'  He  had  wanted  an  intellect 
beside  his,  and  children  at  his  knee.  Rhoda  had  said 
that  there  should  be  no  children.  But  there  was  Time. 
Time  would  change  her.  Time  changes  everybody  who 
is  anybody.  Was  she  anybody?  And  the  intellect 
beside  his?  There  might  be  a  kind  of  companionship. 
She  would  get  a  taste  for  his  tastes,  he  for  hers.  He 
had  faith  in  time.  His  mind  ranged  over  Rhoda's 
character,  like  a  plectrum  trying  the  nerves.  No.  She 

z 


354         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

was  empty.  Women !  He  hated  women.  He  thought 
bitter  thoughts  of  women.  Some  few,  he  thought, 
were,  or  ought  to  be,  mothers.  A  few  more  were  fit 
(provided  the  men  were  not  susceptible)  to  be  men's 
friends.  The  rest.  Oh,  devils,  devils,  devils,  sleek, 
purring  kitten  devils,  little  venomous  snakes,  vulgar  to 
the  bone,  under  the  scent  and  the  whiteness,  without 
honour,  without  love,  without  mind,  at  once  copious 
and  empty,  twining  into  heart  after  heart,  to  suck 
blood,  then  on  again,  heads  erect,  sweet,  charming,  sly, 
the  devil's  minions,  the  devil's  invitation  cards.  In  his 
weariness  his  mind  thrust  before  him  a  picture  of  Rhoda, 
dressed  in  a  blue  kimono,  sitting  at  table.  Words  from 
the  Proverbs  came  to  him:  "  The  dead  are  there  .  .  . 
and  her  guests  are  in  the  depths  of  hell." 

"I  am  in  hell/'  he  said.  He  had  forgotten  Mary 
Drummond. 

She  faced  him.  "What  is  the  matter?  In  heU? 
There  is  only  one  hell.  Regret  for  the  imperfect. 
You're  strong  enough  to  make  good  all  that  you've 
made  badly."  Her  face  was  very  beautiful  in  the 
lamplight  in  the  dusk  of  the  square  garden.  He  saw 
something  of  her  life  in  the  great  dark  earnest  eyes  and 
strong,  beautiful  mouth. 

"  You've  been  in  hell,  my  friend." 

"  I've  been  in  hell,"  she  replied. 

"  It  made  you  a  fine  friend." 

<f  I  learned  the  joy  of  heaven." 

"  You  never  made  things  badly." 

"  Women's  task  is  to  see  what  men  can  do." 

"  Are  you  very  tired?  " 

"  I'll  watch  by  the  death-bed  of  your  devil.  You 
needn't  tell  me.  Afterwards  you  would  be  angry  with 
yourself.  We'll  walk  on  down  to  the  Park.  We  can 
sit  there."  Her  thoughts  ran  back  to  a  long-dead  day 
when  this  young  man's  mother  had  watched  by  the 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          355 

death-bed  of  her  devil.  It  was  as  though  she  were 
paying  back  the  dead.  A  common  woman  would  have 
chosen  the  moment  to  glut  her  vanity.  Men  play  into 
women's  hands.  She  thought  of  some  of  the  senti- 
mental by-paths  trodden  by  emotional  liars.  There  is 
a  passivity  about  the  female  liar.  It  stamps  her 
spiritual  corpse.  Mary  Drummond  wondered  whether 
he  would  catch  from  her  hint  of  the  death-bed  that 
reverence  for  all  human  nearness  which  may  make  talk 
a  sacrament. 

They  sat  on  a  bench,  facing  towards  the  curve  of  the 
road.  Lovers  passed  them.  Under  the  gleam  of  the 
lamp,  the  dresses  in  passing  cabs  gleamed.  It  was 
warm  for  the  time  of  year.  For  five  minutes  they  sat 
in  silence. 

"  People  were  sometimes  harsh  to  you  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Only  Nature  is  harsh.  Death  and  birth  are  harsh. 
Love  is  harsh.  People  are  kind  really,  only  those  three 
things  come  in." 

"  The  last  is  the  bad  one.     It  gives  wrong  values." 

"  It  is  like  moonlight." 

"  You  would  not  end  it,  if  you  were  re-making  the 
world?" 

"  It  is  only  fever.  It  gives  more  pain  than  fever.  It 
is  not  a  good  state.  But  thirty  years  give  one  other 
kinds  of  truth.  Sometimes  I  am  humbled  by  the 
amount  of  wisdom  that  even  a  short  life  teaches." 

"  Wisdom  is  worth  while." 

"It  is  the  food  which  the  ant-like  days  lay  up  for 
the  winter." 

"  You  suffered  a  great  deal?  " 

"  Your  mother  sat  by  me,  once,  as  I  sit  by  you." 

"Where  was  that?" 

"  By  the  sea,  in  Ireland.  A  field  near  the  sea.  The 
thought  that  the  field  is  still  there,  growing  its  flowers 
while  the  tide  clucks  in  the  rocks,  has  made  me  ashamed, 


356         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

often,  since  then.  I  soured  a  golden  afternoon  for 
your  mother,  and  all  that  beauty  was  coming  out  of 
the  earth." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  know  the  place." 

"  We  haunt  the  places  where  we  have  felt  intensely." 

"  I  shall  haunt  this  seat.  Do  I  dim  an  evening  for 
you?" 

"  No.  It  is  my  chance  to  pay.  Your  mother  was 
very  gentle  with  me." 

"  What  did  she  say  to  you?  "  he  asked. 

"  That  there  must  be  a  big  rhythm  in  life.  It  is 
true.  The  world  is  a  big  thing.  It  has  a  big  purpose. 
It  makes  a  sweep  round  the  sun,  giving  things  their 
chance  of  growth.  It  has  its  little  deflections.  The 
moon  pulls  the  tides.  But  it  goes  on.  We  can  go  on 
just  as  calmly,  just  as  grandly,  giving  things  a  chance 
to  grow.  The  tides  and  the  deflections  ought  to  be  only 
incidents.  How  well  I  remember  your  mother.  She 
wore  a  great  straw  hat  tied  on  with  a  scarf.  You 
remind  me  of  her  sometimes.  I  have  been  thinking 
how  proud  she  would  be  to  see  the  chances  of  growth 
you  give  these  boys.  That  is  the  only  art  permissible 
in  these  times,  to  shame  those  who  rank  the  affairs  of 
life  above  life.  I  have  heard  people  say  that  they  did 
not  believe  in  the  existence  of  '  mute  inglorious  Mil  tons/ 
as  though  exceptional  talent  had  always  an  exceptional 
genius  for  life.  Half  the  talent  in  the  world  is 
smothered  by  convention.  Three-quarters  of  the  rest 
never  gets  the  impulse  to  life.  Man  is  earth.  Earth 
can  be  cultivated.  And  here  is  all  this  earth  of  man 
lying  fallow.  What  crops  it  might  grow.  Revolution 
is  the  spade  in  the  buried  city.  Unsuspected  plants 
spring  up.  I  have  thought  of  you  so  often.  You  seem 
to  me  like  a  Schliemann  about  to  turn  up  a  civilisation 
from  under  the  earth.  Many  women,  talking  as  we  are 
talking,  would  try  to  get  their  hands  into  your  life,  for 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          357 

vulgar  ends.  You  will  know  that.  I  am  looking  at 
your  power  to  help  the  world.  I  see  that  this  is  a 
crisis  for  you.  I  have  been  placed  beside  you  during 
the  crisis.  I  want  to  be  a  help  in  the  widest  sense.  To 
keep  your  power  to  help  from  being  withered.  Nature 
has  her  winter,  too.  It  only  kills  her  sentimentalists. 
The  people  whose  thoughts  and  emotions  lack  vitality. 
A  danger  in  life  is  to  mistake  a  deflection  for  a  part  of 
the  big  rhythm.  Tidal  and  magnetic  things.  All  the 
emotional  folly  which  uneducated  people  set  above 
wisdom.  The  resolute  act  counts  for  more  than  those 
It  triumphs  over  them.'1 

"  Perhaps  you're  right,"  he  said.  "  But  a  whim  can 
play  sad  tricks  with  a  resolve." 

"  That  is  why  she  urged  the  big  rhythm." 

"  Women  make  the  big  rhythm  impossible.  They 
hate  the  big  rhythm.  They  want  man  to  bite  at  their 
apples.  Paradise  can  take  care  of  itself  for  them." 

"  Few  men  complain  till  middle-age,"  she  said. 

"  A  great  deal  of  folly  that  there  may  be  more  fools," 
he  answered. 

"  There  is  a  wise  world  in  a  wise  head.  Live  in  that 
world  if  this  becomes  intolerable.  A  fool  is  real.  You 
would  run  to  save  a  fool  from  a  burning  house.  And  a 
fool  is  better  than  a  brute." 

"It  is  one  of  the  problems.  Brutes  justify  them- 
selves by  killing  fools.  They  are  the  A  of  civilisation. 
Fools  are  the  Z.  We  talk  of  the  conquest  of  Nature. 
We  don't  conquer  her.  We  make  her  look  silly.  Brutes 
conquer  Nature  when  they  sail  a  ship  or  plough  up  a 
forest. 

She  was  gentle  with  him.  But  some  of  the  rooms  of 
hell  are  for  single  souls.  His  tragedy  was  the  tragedy 
of  youth,  which  Time  either  ends  or  changes  to  comedy. 
He  had  married  rashly:  the  world  was  unkind  to  him. 
All  that  she  could  give  was  a  grave  gentleness.  It  was 


358         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

like  holding  wild  flowers  to  a  drowning  man.  He 
clutched  them,  speechless.  She  hoped  that  he  would 
look  at  them  when  he  got  ashore.  She  felt  very  tender 
towards  him.  He  was  always  the  little  child  who  had 
stood  in  the  sun  with  her.  Suggestions  of  his  mother 
in  look  and  manner  strengthened  her  tenderness. 

"  Mrs.  Drummond,"  he  said.  "  Were  you  ever 
beaten?  Beaten  right  down?  " 

"  Yes.     That  comes  to  everybody.     Life  is  full  of 
lost  battles.     Women  aren't  exempt.     Their  battles  go 
on  within  bitten  lips." 
"  Life  hits." 

"  There  would  be  few  sparks  struck,  otherwise." 
"  Some  day  you  will  tell  me  of  your  battles." 
"  Women's    battles    are    best    described    by    third 
persons. " 

"  I  know.     I  wondered  where  you  got  the  strength." 
"  Faith  in  life  is  the  only  strength.     Life  is  a  flicker- 
ing on  the  brain.     It  will  flicker  out  so  soon.     To  let 
emotional   storms   obscure   the   flicker.     Something   is 
trying  to  shine  through." 

"  Science  is  a  perception  of  the  flickering." 
"  Art  shuts  it  in  a  lantern  and  tries  to  read  by  it." 
"  I  remember  a  saint  in  India.     He  sat  by  the  road- 
side, holding  out  a  begging-bowl.     But  one  only  saw 
his  eyes.     He  had  fire  burning  in  him.     Life  is  more 
than  that,  though.     Sitting  in  the  dust  while  the  world 
rolls  round." 

"  Rest  is  a  part  of  it.  Don't  you  shudder  at  the  want 
of  rest  ?  We  are  mirrors.  God  is  always  trying  to  see 
his  image  in  us.  We  are  never  still  enough  to  give  him 
more  than  a  blur.  I  am  ashamed  of  my  leisure  when  I 
see  the  crowd  in  the  street,  knowing  nothing  more  in  life 
than  daily  interests." 

"  What  is  to  come  after  that  crowd?  What  are  they 
going  to  believe  ?  What  are  they  going  to  work  at  ?  " 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         359 

"  They'll  play  the  cards  we  deal  them/'  Big  Ben 
struck  seven.  The  notes  drove  trembling,  slowly,  one 
by  one,  into  their  minds,  a  drone  of  a  tone  trembling. 

"  They'll  tear  up  the  pack,  because  we  have  been 
afraid  to  deal,"  he  said.  "  If  I'd  gone  on,  I'd  have  had 
five  million  men  in  earnest  within  five  years.  We're  a 
fine  race  with  a  genius  for  rotten  institutions." 

"  You  ought  to  go  abroad  for  three  months.  '  Wander 
among  unknown  men.'  Berlin.  Or  Boston." 

"Yes.  I  know,"  he  sighed.  "I  wouldn't  find  a 
person  like  you  there.  '  Nor,  England,  would  I  know 
till  then.'  But  I'd  like  England  to  be  a  happy  land. 
It's  not  too  much  to  ask  from  life." 

"  Be  happy  yourself,  first." 

"  Ah.     I'm  too  young  to  be  happy." 

"  Let  us  walk,"  she  said.  They  walked  to  and  fro 
under  the  lamps  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  I've  not  talked  surrender,"  he  said. 
.  "  No,  of  course  you  haven't.     There's  the  Brigade  to 
save.     You  must  illustrate  my  theory,  that  our  officials 
are  much  better  than  our  administrators." 

"  Yes.  We're  wonderful  on  the  low  plane.  We  do 
a  day's  work."  The  bitterness  flamed  out  again. 
"  That's  my  quarrel,"  he  said.  "  Where  is  the  chance 
for  the  day's  work?  We  break  half  the  hearts  in  the 
country  that  the  other  half  may  get  fatty  degeneration." 
They  walked  under  the  trees,  towards  the  park  gates. 

"  When  you  go  home,"  she  said,  "  will  you  tell  your 
wife  to  expect  me  at  any  time  ?  The  battle  begins." 

"  I'll  tell  her."  They  walked  to  the  street.  She  was 
thinking  that  any  living  soul  would  have  served  his 
turn  as  well. 

"  There  are  no  heroes,"  he  said.  "  Life  is  an  oppor- 
tunity for  Reason.  Tempered  by  luck.  The  colour  of 
a  life  depends  on  the  kind  of  people  near  it  at  critical 
times.  The  Church  dimly  recognises  that,  even  now." 


360         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  We  have  all  the  machinery  for  perfect  life." 

"  I  know.     But  it's  all  designed  for  hand-power." 

"  That  is  the  only  power.  That  is  why  I  care  for 
your  Brigade." 

They  stopped  to  say  good-bye.  She  searched  his 
face,  catching  again  that  suggestion  of  the  long  dead 
day  from  his  likeness  to  his  mother.  Weariness  (like 
the  extremes  of  age)  often  brings  out  a  likeness.  It 
brings  out  the  woman  in  a  man's  face,  in  his  nature, 
too,  perhaps.  A  drunken,  grey-haired  woman  came 
past,  dancing,  snapping  her  fingers,  nodding  her  head. 
A  little  crowd  followed,  encouraging  her,  annoying  her. 
Lionel  drew  his  breath  sharply,  with  an  "  O  God." 
Mrs.  Drummond  liked  him  for  it. 

"  We'll  bring  beauty  even  into  that,"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  blame  her,"  he  said.  "  The  grave's  waiting. 
It's  the  only  protest  they  ever  make." 

"  You  want  watering  and  potting  out,"  she  said.  He 
smiled.  Feminine  wit  had  always  a  relish  for  him. 

"  What  do  you  do  with  weeds  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  will  see,"  she  said.  "  Even  if  we  don't  bring 
beauty,  there'll  be  beauty  in  the  effort.  Beauty  is 
effort.  It  is  a  hard  thing.  It  hurts  to  make.  Aren't 
you  trying  for  a  sterile  world?  "  He  sighed.  "  That 
is  the  result  of  detachment."  They  shook  hands 
warmly,  without  speaking.  She  feared  to  rouse  the 
emotional  devil  in  him.  He  felt  that  if  he  spoke  he 
might  be  sentimental.  They  turned  from  each  other. 
She  entered  a  station,  he  hailed  a  motor  cab.  As  he 
was  driven  home,  he  wondered  what  the  end  would  be. 
She  was  always  an  optimist.  Women  usually  are.  But 
optimism  is  physiologic,  not  philosophic.  He  smiled. 
The  pessimist?  A  sentimentalist  in  mourning.  He 
sighed  heavily.  There  would  be  another  scene  with 
Rhoda.  What  would  be  the  end  of  that?  But  there 
is  no  end  to  marriage.  Marriage  is  for  life.  He  had 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         361 

vowed  to  endure  it  till  he  or  she  lay  dead.  Dimly,  as  a 
man  will  at  times,  he  saw  Rhoda  white  on  the  bed.  He 
saw  himself  kneeling  at  the  bedside,  in  an  agony  of  re- 
morse. "  O  Rhoda.  Rhoda.  It  would  be  different 
if  you  were  back."  The  nature  does  not  change  in  that 
way.  Marriage  is  the  effort  of  two  temperaments  to 
adjust  themselves.  One  may  have  the  best  will  in  the 
world.  A  disinclination  in  the  other  may  turn  the  good 
will  to  frenzy. 

Inside  the  door  of  the  flat  was  a  shelf  on  which  letters 
were  left.  He  looked  through  the  letters.  There  was 
one  from  Naldrett,  one  from  Captain  Peters,  one  from 
Mrs.  Richard  Homme.  Under  them  was  a  note  from 
Rhoda  for  him.  He  tore  it  open,  divining  evil.  It  was 
short. 

DEAR  LIONEL, — I  am  going  to  stay  with  Dora.  You 
can  suit  yourself  about  coming  down  for  the  week-end. 
Naturally  I  cannot  ask  you  to  stay  with  Dora.  If  you 
want  to  come,  there  are  rooms  at  the  Borman  Arms; 
you  can  write  and  engage  them.  But  of  course  you  do 
not  like  the  country  in  the  winter !  I  have  turned  your 
evening  things  out  of  my  cupboard.  I  do  not  like  the 
smell  of  tobacco  in  my  clothes.  Dear  Lion,  don't  be 
vexed.  You  have  quite  spoiled  my  blue  muslin.  It  is 
quite  ruined. — With  love,  R.H. 

He  walked  into  the  sitting-room.  A  telegram  lay  on 
the  floor.  He  picked  it  up.  It  was  for  Rhoda  from 
Dora.  "  Delighted  have  you.  Can  only  manage  one. 
Dora."  It  had  been  handed  in  at  Pudsey  at  half -past 
three.  Time  to  catch  the  4.45.  A  servant  entered. 

"  Will  you  be  wanting  dinner,  sir?  " 

'  Yes,"  he  said.  Dinner  was  announced  in  time. 
He  paid  no  heed  to  the  announcement.  Long  after- 
wards, the  servant,  coming  back  to  tell  him  that  the  soup 


362         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

was  cold,  found  him  in  an  armchair,  staring  straight 
ahead  of  him. 

"  Your  soup  will  be  quite  cold,  Mr.  Heseltine." 

"  What?  "he  said. 

"  Your  soup  will  be  quite  cold,  sir." 

"  I  must  change,"  he  said.  He  rose  to  his  feet.  He 
wanted  the  refreshment  of  changing.  But  when  he  had 
begun  to  undress  he  could  not  find  his  clothes.  He 
searched  in  all  the  drawers.  They  were  not  there. 
Where  the  devil  were  they,  then?  The  servants  had 
not  seen  them.  At  last  after  long  searching,  Susan 
brought  him  some  very  crumpled  clothes. 

"  Are  these  the  ones,  sir?  " 

"  Those  are  they.     Where  were  they?  " 

"  Under  some  rubbish  in  the  fireplace,  sir,  in  Mrs. 
Heseltine's  room." 

"  Who  put  them  there?  "  he  flamed. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  Perhaps  Jane'll  know."  Jane, 
being  asked,  declared  that  she  saw  the  mistress  put 
them  there. 

"  She  must  have  put  them  there  by  mistake,"  Jane 
said.  "  It  was  when  we  were  turning  out  the  cupboards 
to  get  her  things." 

He  stood  in  his  shirt-sleeves  at  the  door  of  his  dress- 
ing-room, turning  over  the  crumpled  coat. 

41  I  must  stretch  them,"  he  said.  "  Bring  dinner." 
After  the  servants  had  gone,  he  felt  along  the  coat's 
shoulder.  It  had  been  crushed.  He  had  a  glimpse  of 
Rhoda  in  a  nervous  fury  wreaking  on  the  coat  some- 
thing of  what  she  felt  towards  the  wearer. 


CHAPTER  XI 

HE  received  no  letter  from  Rhoda.  He  wrote  a  short 
note  to  her.  A  few  days  later  he  talked  with  Sir  William 
Fount  about  the  taking  over  of  the  Brigade.  He  fought 
for  a  definite  answer  from  Sir  William,  but  got  none. 
The  Baronet  was  polite,  interested,  evasive.  Coming 
away  from  the  interview,  Lionel  decided  that  Sir 
William  was  holding  out  upon  the  strength  of  secret 
information.  "  What  is  the  next  blow?  "  he  wondered. 
"  What  more  can  they  be  plotting?  "  Sir  William  had 
a  great  head  and  little  pale  brown  pig's  eyes.  Lionel 
liked  him.  He  discovered  in  him  a  curious  knowledge 
of  the  motions  of  waves.  What  could  he  know  of  the 
affairs  of  the  Brigade,  or  of  the  plans  of  the  Associated  ? 
The  business  world  is  a  world  at  war,  though  its  fighters 
are  crueller,  and  less  manly  than  soldiers.  As  in  war, 
information  leaks  out,  or  is  deduced  from  signs,  often 
from  small  signs.  Minds  narrowed  beyond  a  certain 
point  are  always  in  focus.  "  Something  is  going  to 
happen,"  he  said  to  himself.  Wondering  what  it  would 
be,  he  found  himself  thinking  of  Sir  William.  "  He  can 
improvise  and  organise,"  he  thought.  "  He  can  learn 
anything,  and  do  most  things.  But  he  can't  think." 
He  wondered  how  much  an  instinctive  ability  would 
gain  by  having  that  added  power.  Sir  William  was  the 
son  of  a  small  farmer.  The  wives  of  the  gentry  near 
his  native  village,  in  Herefordshire,  found  pleasure  in 
the  memory.  Intellect  is  the  dangerous  thing  which 
God  permits.  God  vouchsafes  His  view  of  it  to  sinners 
by  never  allowing  it  a  grandfather. 

The  strike  of  the  United  continued.     Their  campaign 
363 


364         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

in  the  Press  prospered.  The  sales  of  the  Snip  Snap 
Press  fell  away.  "It  is  like  a  boycott/'  Lionel  said. 
The  Daily  Press  gave  him  the  name  of  Blackleg.  Little 
gangs  of  bullies,  made  up  of  London's  loose  rascaldom, 
threatened  the  Brigade  Boys.  To  speak  to  a  Brigade 
Boy  was  to  win  foul  abuse  from  half  a  dozen  of  the 
scum  of  the  world.  To  offer  to  buy  a  paper  from  him 
was  to  court  assault.  No  man  loved  Snip  Snap  even 
unto  martyrdom.  The  clerk  glanced  at  the  dangers 
which  hedged  the  purchase.  Siding  with  the  majority, 
he  slunk  away,  to  where  the  opposition  offered  the  ass 
in  him  sweet  pasture. 

Mrs.  Drummond  called  upon  Rhoda. 

"  She's  away,"  said  Lionel.  "  She's  down  in  the 
country." 

"  Will  she  be  long  away?  "  Lionel  had  not  heard. 
He  said  that  she  would  be  there  for  some  time  longer. 
He  had  not  written.  Sometimes  he  was  prompted  to 
write.  But  then  came  in  the  memory  of  the  crumpled 
coat.  That  was  hard  to  forgive.  A  small  vindictive- 
ness  rankles.  A  big  sin  calls  out  something  big  in  the 
forgiver  of  it.  Her  letter  rankled.  Neither  man  nor 
woman  can  forgive  a  rudeness  from  one  of  the  opposite 
sex.  A  man's  rudeness  to  a  man  is  personal,  it  rouses 
wrath  against  a  person.  A  woman's  rudeness  to  a  man 
is  sexual,  it  rouses  wrath  against  the  sex.  He  made 
allowance  for  her  nerves.  He  had  seen  all  the  strings 
of  that  lute  tense  to  snapping.  She  rankled,  though. 
His  bitterness  painted  him  the  picture  of  the  two 
women  together,  by  the  fireside,  talking.  She  would 
be  giving  her  version.  An  angry  woman's  version.  By 
inference  from  many  facts  Mary  Drummond  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  picture. 

She  had  been  trying  to  catch  Sir  Pica  Galley,  she  said. 
But  Sir  Pica  was  at  Cuenca,  or  on  his  way  home  on  mule- 
back,  through  Spain.  Lady  Galley,  whom  she  had 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          365 

seen,  was  interested.  She  quoted  Lady  Galley.  "  Sir 
Pica  used  to  be  interested  in  his  business,  but  latterly, 
my  dear,  he's  beginning  to  see  the  results  of  business 
on  the  nation/' 

"  Even  if  Sir  Pica  should  fail  us,  there  is  Sir  William 
Fount." 

"  I've  seen  Sir  William/'  Lionel  said.  "  Something 
is  being  planned." 

"For  us?" 

"No.     Against." 

"What?" 

"  I  don't  know.  There  it  is.  When  will  Sir  Pica  be 
back?" 

"  A  fortnight." 

"  I  am  giving  the  boys  notice  this  week.  The  strike's 
ruined  my  last  venture.  Nothing's  coming  in.  It 
must  end  while  I  can  end  without  debt." 

"  A  week's  notice?  " 

"  A  fortnight's.     Three  weeks  if  I  can  mortgage." 

"  My  poor  friend.     How  are  the  boys  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  were  like  them.     The  English  have  virtue." 

"  You  look  worn  out  with  brooding  on  them." 

"  Oh.  It's  a  worry.  Life  often  is,  even  at  its  best.  I 
don't  think  I'll  start  again." 

"  You  won't  give  up?  You  mustn't  talk  like  that. 
Here's  this  wonderful  world  that  you're  going  to  make 
beautiful.  One  of  the  few  people  who  can."  He  shook 
his  head  wearily.  The  epigram  was  not  spoken.  Her 
words  made  him  too  sad  to  be  cynical. 

"  I  wish  I'd  your  mind,"  he  said.     "  You  pray?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Is  it  more  than  getting  excited  about  the  work  in 
hand?" 

"  Yes.  More  than  that.  It  certifies  the  fitness  of 
the  work,  and  the  Tightness  of  the  means.  And  it  con- 
secrates the  worker."  They  talked  for  an  hour  or  more, 


366         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

two  hours.  They  sat  by  firelight  in  his  study.  Towards 
the  end  of  the  time  he  was  cheered  by  the  sight  of 
flowers  among  the  stones  of  his  mind.  She  had  put 
them  there.  He  thought  them  his  own. 

"  I  wouldn't  do  any  work  if  I  could  always  talk,"  he 
said.  "  Talking  with  a  delightful  person  with  whom 
one  can't  agree.  .  .  .  It's  like  dawn  prolonged  indefi- 
nitely. A  glimmer,  and  greenery,  and  always  cool 
dew." 

"  It  is  the  wave  saying  to  the  rock,  '  I  cannot  drown 
you.  At  least  I  will  put  a  sparkle  on  your  seaweeds.'  " 

"  I  wish  we  talkers  had  more  time.  We  sit,  we  tune 
ourselves;  the  notes  strike.  Perhaps  the  notes  wander 
abroad  and  strike  hearts  keyed  to  them.  We  sow 
music ;  ideas.  The  worst  is,  that  when  talk  is  good,  life 
has  flowered.  The  barbarian's  on  the  march.  People 
suffer  hell  for  centuries,  and  at  the  end  two  fine  people 
sit  by  teacups  for  an  hour,  talking  like  hypodermic 
syringes." 

"  That  is  the  end.  One  end.  Another  end  is  when 
two  fine  people  conquer  the  barbarian.  Ancient  bar- 
barism was  beyond  the  borders.  Now  it's  within.  And 
Nature  wants  barbarism."  She  rose  to  go.  "  But  I'm 
not  going  to  leave  you  thinking  that.  Sir  Pica's 
coming." 

"  Death-bed  repentance,"  said  Lionel.  "  Perhaps 
that's  what  we're  all  suffering  from.  I  wonder  how 
much  virtue  that  man  has  destroyed."  They  parted  at 
the  door.  "  Good-bye,  dear  woman."  She  held  his 
hand.  Her  eyes  were  steadfast.  "  We  must  make  the 
most  of  all  good  impulse,"  she  said. 

"  Ideal's  only  a  glimmer  at  the  best.  May  Sir  Pica 
be  a  foundation  for  us." 

"  If  I  could  get  to  Sir  Pica.     But  I'm  tied." 

"Your  wife?" 

"  Partly,"  he  said  indifferently.     "  Oh,  the  business. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          367 

And  the  strike.  Everything.  Let  me  see  you  again 
soon.  You  '  consecrate  the  worker/  ' 

"  Consecration  is  a  big  word.  It  is  apt  to  lose  its 
meaning." 

"  Work  is  meaningless  without  it." 

"  Wicked,  rather.     Good-bye." 

There  are  many  contemptible  women  who  use  a  man's 
want  of  help  as  a  spoon  to  stir  their  own  sensuality. 
Other  sweet  sentimental  souls  stand  forever  on  tip- 
toe, asking  for  "  a  friend."  Those  who  have  failed  in 
marriage  are  players  at  this  game. 

Lionel  had  often  wondered  why  rational  souls  should 
behave  thus.  He  concluded  that  they  do  so  only  when 
the  woman's  cowardly  regard  for  her  own  convenience 
meets  with  an  answering  half-heartedness  in  the  man. 
Half-heartedness  is  the  one  sin  in  life.  It  destroys  life, 
and  makes  man  supremely  foolish  in  the  process. 
Lionel  was  merciless  to  the  half-hearted.  He  had  been 
its  accomplice.  He  had  been  its  dupe.  Rhoda's  nerves, 
her  shrinkings,  the  delicacies  which  he  had  thought  so 
fine,  the  wiles  which  he  had  found  so  sweet,  were  part  of 
that  calling  out  for  death  which  brings  the  barbarian. 
In  praising  her  he  had  praised  the  fear  of  life.  He  had 
put  his  soul  in  petticoats  and  dabbed  it  with  a  powder- 
puff. 

He  thanked  God  for  Mary  Drummond.  The  genuine 
woman  after  the  merely  feminine  is  like  rock  after 
marsh.  He  had  once  felt  a  want  in  her.  Now  he  paid 
her  the  tribute  of  half  admitting  that  the  want  had  been 
in  himself.  He  had  asked  for  a  superficial  charm,  for 
the  will-o'-the-wisp  which  flickers  over  the  sensual. 
Mary  was  a  fine  strong  spirit.  She  was  a  steady  star. 
He  could  trust  to  her  burning  clear  above  any  of  the 
storms  of  life. 

Could  he?  He  was  getting  wise  about  women. 
Could  he  be  sure?  Could  he  be  sure  that  she  was 


368          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

not  like  the  others,  a  sentimentalist  disguised?  Her 
interest  might  be  an  astute  flattery,  designed  to  draw  a 
warmer  return  of  the  same.  He  knew  to  what  subtleties 
of  falsehood  the  female  sentimentalist  will  stoop.  He 
knew  with  what  hypocrisy  the  false  woman  will  cover 
her  approach.  Women  hoodwink  men  by  an  assump- 
tion of  interests.  They  can  assume  interests  in  litera- 
ture, in  the  cause  of  liberty,  in  "  life."  Modern  social 
intercourse  rests  upon  assumption.  Women  have  but 
to  make  an  assumption.  The  wavering  flame  of  sex 
adroitly  wielded  guards  them  from  the  thrusts  of 
criticism.  They  bait  their  trap  with  an  assumed 
interest,  sure  of  the  spring,  certain  of  the  victim's  folly. 

But  their  power  has  limits,  even  if  their  victim's  folly 
has  none.  Interests  may  be  assumed,  states  of  the  soul 
cannot.  Nobleness  of  mind  cannot  be  assumed.  Man 
should  seek  for  that  when  he  goes  marrying,  some  percep- 
tion of  the  soul  of  the  world,  a  passion  for  the  right,  a 
faith  which  burns  steady,  not  only  when  "  life "  is 
"  good,"  but  when  life  is  bad.  Death  is  the  touchstone. 
Touch  a  character  (even  in  imagination)  with  death, 
the  death  of  some  one  dear.  To  what  colour  does  it 
turn?  To  what  does  it  change?  Mary  Drummond 
stood  the  test. 

Thought  of  Mary  Drummond  cheered  him  that  evening 
as  he  sat  alone  over  the  fire.  Intellect  and  sex  are  old 
enemies.  The  thought  of  children  choked  him.  The 
childless  suffer  a  starvation  of  the  soul.  He  felt  like  an 
empty  grate.  She  had  been  through  it,  too,  he  sup- 
posed. She  had  no  child.  He  thought  of  the  dread  of 
having  children,  as  the  mark  of  the  sensual  nature,  in 
woman  or  man.  She  must  have  pined  for  a  child.  Had 
she  ever  borne  a  child?  Or  had  she  always  starved? 
He  knew  of  a  childless  woman.  He  had  come  upon  her 
suddenly,  hugging  a  friend's  child  to  her  breast,  weeping 
as  though  her  heart  would  break.  Pity  for  all  starved 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          369 

women  took  him.  It  was  partly  pity  for  himself.  Mary 
was  his  friend.  That  was  going  to  be  a  bright  and  fine 
thing.  No  rotten  mist  of  sex  should  rise  to  fog  that. 
Thought  of  the  Brigade  stabbed  him  in  the  back.  He 
rose,  wincing,  to  walk  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  dree- 
ing a  bitter  weird.  The  Brigade  was  coming  to  an  end. 
The  Brigade  was  coming  to  an  end.  He  was  going  to  be 
a  ruined  man.  He  would  be  trampled  on,  spat  on, 
laughed  at,  mocked.  On  the  night  of  his  ruin,  Rhoda, 
lover  of  success,  would  peer  in  upon  him  with  her  smile 
of  contempt.  What  happens  to  such  women?  They 
prosper.  They  kill  the  life  in  the  womb.  They  kill  the 
life  in  the  heart,  yet  they  prosper.  Selfishness  usually 
prospers.  Any  tickling  of  the  world's  sensuality  wins 
it  forgiveness.  In  the  bitterness  of  his  wrath  with 
Rhoda  he  wished  himself  dead.  If  he  was  not  dying, 
at  least  his  work  was  coming  to  an  end.  There  is  peace 
at  the  end  of  things,  or,  if  not  peace,  emptiness.  Life 
would  be  blank,  perhaps,  when  all  this  coil  was  cut.  It 
would,  at  least,  be  free  from  fever.  Free  from  Snip 
Snap,  he  could  see  himself  free  to  live.  Modern  man, 
caught  in  a  whirlpool,  calls  being  sucked  down  living. 
Lionel  in  the  burst  of  breakers  saw  still  water  ahead. 
He  saw  himself  free  to  write,  to  study,  to  talk.  The 
calm,  earnest  face  of  Mrs.  Drummond  was  very  stead- 
fast among  the  turmoil.  Perhaps  at  the  sunset  of 
earth's  last  day  the  evening  star  will  show.  Mind 
dying  off  the  world  will  need  that  assurance. 


2A 


CHAPTER  XII 

ON  the  tenth  day,  as  he  went  to  the  office,  he  saw  that 
the  blow  had  fallen.  On  the  sides  of  the  omnibuses,  in 
big  blue  letters,  were  the  words — TIP  TOP.  The  new 
Weekly.  You  can  get  it  at  the  bookstalls.  TIP  TOP. 
In  Trafalgar  Square  he  was  delayed  by  musicians  in 
pale  blue  uniforms.  They  were  marching  in  fours 
behind  a  drum-major.  After  the  band  came  banner- 
bearers.  The  banners  blew  out  bravely,  he  could  read 
the  legends  on  them. — TIP  TOP.  You  can  get  it  at  the 
bookstalls.  TIP  TOP.  Laughter  greeted  the  legend. 
Men  cheered.  Brigade  boys  in  the  street  were  bidden 
to  look  at  what  was  passing.  After  the  banners  came 
four  young  ladies  in  a  lorry.  Though  they  were  dressed 
to  represent  England,  Scotland,  Wales,  and  Ireland, 
they  more  closely  resembled  the  national  intoxicants. 
They  scattered  handbills  for  which  the  crowd  scrambled. 
One  of  the  handbills  fluttered  against  Lionel's  chest. 
He  read  it.  It  repeated  the  legend  of  the  banners. 

With  several  hundreds  of  other  people  he  marched 
beside  the  lorry  to  the  Strand  entrance.  Here  the 
bearers  of  a  furled  banner  cast  loose  their  gaskets. 
When  open,  the  banner  showed  the  words  of  a  song 
printed  in  large  type.  Instantly,  at  the  word  of  com- 
mand, as  the  band  struck  up  a  tune,  the  national  ladies 
broke  into  song.  As  they  sang  they  scattered  hand- 
bills from  a  tub  covered  with  silver  paper.  Less 
lavishly  they  scattered  copies  of  the  new  weekly.  Lionel 
caught  one  copy.  The  words  of  the  song  slowly  drew 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          371 

clear  of  the  accent,  just  as  a  ship  draws  clear  of 
fog. 

"  I'm  the  Tip  Top,  Tip  Top,  Tip  Top  Touch, 
That  knocked  old  Snip  Snap  aht." 

Lionel  grinned  at  the  thrust:  but  bitterly.  So  they 
stole  his  methods,  and  debased  them.  Caricature  is 
often  shrewd  moral  judgment.  Only  the  good  can 
stand  parody.  He  felt  that  he  was  seeing  his  ideas 
under  a  magnifying  glass.  He  did  not  like  the  sight. 
Walking  swiftly,  he  passed  the  column,  and  reached  his 
office  door.  A  large  crowd  had  gathered  outside  the 
door.  The  houses  flanking  his  office  supported  immense 
blue  canvas  letters,  announcing  Tip  Top.  At  the  open 
windows,  immense  phonographs  sang  the  marching 
song,  or,  pausing,  shouted  that  you  could  get  it  at  the 
bookstalls.  It  had  become  epigrammatic  to  say  "  Tip 
Top  "  to  the  Brigade  Boys  in  the  streets.  Wits  spoke 
the  words  with  an  air  of  detachment,  in  passing.  With 
the  same  inflection  the  boys  in  seaports,  passing  a  negro 
in  the  street,  murmur,  "  See  that  coon."  Between  the 
two  immense  hoardings  the  Snip  Snap  signs  showed 
like  little  hyphens.  Lionel  mounted  the  stairs.  He 
looked  down  from  the  outer  office  window  on  to  the 
heads  of  a  quickly  gathering  crowd.  The  slow  move- 
ment of  the  omnibuses  reminded  him  of  a  day  in  India. 
Elephants  had  forged  through  a  crowd  with  just  that 
motion.  The  crowd  below  opened  upon  him.  "  Yah! 
Snip  Snap."  "Wot  O  the  bookstalls."  One  wag 
greeted  him,  "  Keptin  Coe."  Lionel  stood  for  a  minute, 
watching  them.  They  roared  aloud  when  they  heard 
the  band.  The  banners  came  straining,  the  heads  of 
the  singing  ladies  showed,  the  tub  gleamed.  The 
omnibuses  stopped  as  the  crowd  surged  across  the  street 
to  watch.  Their  passengers  stood  up;  there  was  a 
cheering.  Five  hundred  people,  marching  to  the  band, 


372          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

were  singing  that  they  were  the  Tip  Top  Touch. 
"  'Ooray.  Tip  Top."  "  Boo!  Snip  Snap."  "  Gow 
owm."  A  young  man  full  of  the  catch- word  wit  of  the 
streets,  began  to  sing: — 

"  If  you  want  to  know  the  noos 
Ask  a  bookstall, 
Want  the  .  .  .  noos." 

The  drums  and  trumpets  loosened  the  strain  of  improvi- 
sation. The  national  ladies  flung  more  handbills.  The 
wind  fluttered  the  papers  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd. 
The  snatching  hands  reminded  Lionel  of  one  of  the 
sights  of  war  time.  Not  all  the  crowd  could  get  near 
the  lorry.  Many  of  the  idlers  turned  again  to  listen  to 
the  phonographs.  They  made  remarks  about  Snip 
Snap.  Lionel  looked  down  upon  them.  That  was  the 
English  crowd,  his  audience. 

He  did  not  like  the  looks  of  them.  Idlers  of  any  kind 
were  out  of  his  scheme  of  the  world.  City  idlers  were 
poison  to  him.  "  You're  a  rotten  lot/'  he  muttered. 
"  You're  the  barbarism  which  will  end  this  Rome.  You 
can't  work.  You  can't  play.  You  can't  think.  You 
won't  learn  and  you  won't  be  drilled.  You  stand  and 
boo.  You  boo  the  women  who  want  votes,  and  the 
soldiers  who  want  men,  and  the  truth- teller  and  the 
losing  side.  And  other  men's  labour  and  wisdom  keep 
you  going."  There  was  nothing  in  the  faces.  "  I  saw 
you  happy  on  Maf eking  Night,"  he  muttered.  "  You 
degraded  us  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Some  night  you'll 
be  angry.  You'll  need  a  strong  bit  when  that  happens. 
Hunger's  the  bit  for  you." 

Miss  Coleman  recalled  him  to  himself.  There  were 
other  matters,  serious  matters.  He  forced  his  roving 
attention  to  them,  wondering  "  for  how  much  longer?  " 
Things  were  coming  to  an  end.  Proofs  of  the  last  issue 
of  Snip  Snap  were  handed  to  him.  He  looked  through 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          373 

the  make-up,  sighing.  Nothing  had  come  from  Sir 
Pica.  Sir  William  Fount  came  in,  during  the  morning. 
He  saw  that  he  had  heard  rumours.  He  wished  to  know 
if  there  were  any  truth.  Lionel  chaffed  him  about 
the  poverty  of  his  invention.  Cavour  and  Bismarck 
enjoyed  a  chat  together. 

After  he  had  gone,  Lionel  made  addition  sums  upon 
his  blotting  paper.  The  phonograph  rang  in  his  head. 
It  was  as  though  bulls  with  cockney  voices  were  shout- 
ing like  Americans.  He  recognised  the  method  of  Mr. 
Ike:— 

"  Ow,  there  yn't  no  daht  abaht  it, 
That  you  kennot  live  withaht  it. 
Fer  it's  Tip  Top, 
All  the  time. 
Tip  Top." 

Hearing  that,  once  in  every  three  minutes,  from  half 
past  nine  till  six,  disposed  him  to  dispense  with  proof. 

The  day  passed  slowly.  He  had  once  met  a  man  who 
argued  that  the  eternity  of  the  parsons  was  the  five 
minutes  between  death  and  re-birth.  He  forgot  the 
argument.  It  ran  somehow  thus.  "  Time  is  a  fiction 
of  the  body.  When  you  are  dead,  you  are  out  of  that 
part  of  you  subject  to  time.  Outside  the  body  there  is 
eternity,  etc.,  etc."  Lionel  thought  of  it  now.  Bodily 
weariness  brings  into  the  mind  all  that  is  muddy  and 
mechanical.  Modern  art  is  the  solace  of  the  tired 
clever.  Modern  religion  is  the  solace  of  the  tired  stupid. 
Art  and  faith  should  be  youths  with  flaming  hair  riding 
on  singing  stars.  His  day  passed  in  multitudinous 
mental  processions  from  muddy  memory  to  image,  then 
back.  All  the  time  he  had  his  work  to  do.  There  were 
letters,  callers,  orders.  The  phonographs  entered  the 
brain.  He  was  possessed  by  devils.  There  is  no  greater 
devil  than  the  machine  unduly  exalted.  The  crowd 


374          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

without  sniggered  or  booed.  The  phonographs  sang  on. 
Their  song  was  the  soul  of  the  crowd  speaking. 
"  American  art,"  said  Lionel,  "  the  American  mind. 
The  temporary  in  '  Settle's  numbers/  "  At  five  o'clock 
he  found  Miss  Coleman  in  tears.  She  confessed,  between 
sobs,  that  she  was  crying  because  "  it  was  all  stolen  from 
him."  He  read  her  excuse  to  mean  that  her  sorrow  was 
for  him,  that  she  felt  how  bitterly  this  was  hurting.  He 
joked  with  her.  "  We  ought  to  feel  flattered."  He 
asked  her  how  her  drawing  did.  Her  mood  gave  a 
gloomy  tinge  to  things.  She  hadn't  the  heart  to  go  on 
with  her  Italian.  He  remembered  a  soldier's  account 
of  a  British  defeat.  There  had  been  incompetent 
strategy,  politician's  strategy,  helped  by  incompetent 
tactics.  There  had  been  splendid  heroism,  self-sacrifice, 
manliness.  The  men  straggled  back  to  camp  crying,  or 
mad,  or  sullen.  They  came  slowly,  under  heavy  fire. 
Some  of  them  sat  down  crying,  waiting  to  be  killed. 
The  commander,  reporting,  said,  "  They  gave  us  a 
devil  of  a  mauling."  The  difference  in  the  moods  was 
here,  too.  The  Normans  among  us  have  never  quite 
mixed  with  the  Saxons.  They  have  only  learned  to 
build  worse. 

At  half-past  six  he  left  the  office.  The  crowd  was 
thicker  now.  The  workers  had  begun  to  join  the  idlers. 
In  the  roar  of  the  Strand  at  its  busiest  hours  he  heard 
nothing  but  Mr.  Ike  singing  through  his  nose.  The 
tune  was  on  the  barrel  organs.  Announcements  of  it 
were  hung  outside  the  music-halls.  In  Regent  Street 
a  band  marched  past  playing  it.  It  was  not  the  band 
of  the  morning. 

He  talked  to  half  a  dozen  of  the  Brigade  boys.  They 
had  had  a  bad  day.  They  had  not  been  mobbed,  only 
hustled  and  chaffed.  The  crowd  had  learned  a  new 
catchword,  two  new  catchwords.  "  A  bit  of  all  right, 
the  wy  their  bends  march."  It  was.  Lionel  had 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          375 

noticed.  The  bands  of  the  opposition  marched  like 
theatre  supers  at  the  end  of  Julius  Caesar. 

He  was  saddened  by  the  talk  with  the  boys.  He  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  the  day  when  he  would  disband 
them.  They  were  under  sentence.  Dismissal  drew 
nearer  every  hour.  In  his  weaker  moments  he  made 
wild  plans  to  save  them.  But  his  mind  was  too  hard 
for  self-deception.  They  could  not  be  saved.  No  man 
can  fight  the  machine.  The  machine  rolls  on.  It  can 
be  diverted,  it  can  be  washed,  it  may  be  mended.  It 
cannot  be  stopped,  nor  checked.  He  who  gets  outside 
the  machine  must  get  well  out,  if  he  wish  to  escape 
crushing.  Sir  Pica  had  sent  no  answer.  Lionel  had 
ceased  to  expect  one ;  he  knew  Sir  Pica's  brain.  "  There 
is  any  quantity  of  boy  labour.  It  is  unorganised.  It  is 
thoughtless.  It  has  neither  power  nor  wish  for  power. 
I  can  use  this  labour  to  distribute  my  wares,  at  such 
cost  as  I  think  fit.  The  work  will  destroy  the  boys. 
It  will  unfit  them  for  life.  After  I  have  used  them,  no 
one  will  be  able  to  use  them.  That  is  the  State's  affair. 
My  business  is  to  distribute  papers  cheaply." 

Lionel  sighed.  "  In  spite  of  all  the  gods  and  prophets, 
this."  Sparta  cared  more  for  her  youth  than  that. 
Specimens  of  Sir  Pica's  handiwork  loafed  at  a  gin  house 
doorway.  They  held  sporting  papers;  the  evening 
editions,  full  of  football  news.  Three  youths  of  eighteen, 
who  had  never  worked  and  never  would  work,  hung 
together,  peering,  with  ophthalmic  eyes,  at  the  latest 
telegrams.  All  were  smoking  cheap  cigarettes.  All 
were  in  rags.  People  passed  them.  No  one  noticed 
them.  No  one  cared.  That  was  what  Englishmen 
had  come  to,  after  ten  centuries.  Lionel  thought  of 
Rhoda.  She  was  a  delicate  blossom.  Life  had  been 
kind  to  her.  Many  lives  had  wrought  to  perfect  her. 
He  bit  his  lips  when  he  thought  of  the  amount  of  virtue 
squandered  to  fit  her  for  an  afternoon's  shopping. 


376         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

He  had  thought  little  of  his  wife  since  she  went  into 
the  country.  He  could  not  write  to  her.  Her  letter 
rankled  still.  He  could  not  forgive  that.  He  saw  her, 
exquisitely  dressed,  in  that  dim  sweet  devil's  bit  scabi- 
ous blue,  sitting  by  the  fire,  brooding.  There  is  a  story 
about  a  witch  who  looked  into  a  pool  of  water.  Feminine 
minds,  poetical  minds,  all  brooding,  unprincipled  minds, 
are  like  pools  of  water.  Images  form  in  them,  some- 
times so  clearly  that  they  are  mistaken  for  thoughts. 
Rhoda  was  looking  into  her  mind  at  her  own  image. 
The  pool  was  troubled,  the  image  was  disturbed.  Some- 
times she  might  be  excused  for  not  knowing  that  the 
image  at  which  she  gazed  was  her  own. 

As  he  entered  the  flat  he  smelt  again  the  perfume 
which  always  clung  about  her.  He  had  once  loved  the 
perfume.  Now  it  sickened  him.  The  vague  sweet 
scent  reminded  him  of  all  that  was  guileful  in  woman. 
It  was  one  of  her  lures.  "  So  she  has  come  back/'  he 
thought.  He  was  irritable;  he  did  not  want  the  extra 
strain.  Men  want  to  be  alone  when  they  are  worried, 
women  ask  for  company.  He  made  a  good  deal  of 
noise  in  the  hall,  to  warn  her  of  his  entry,  but  she  did  not 
come  to  him.  He  went  into  the  sitting-room,  expecting 
to.  find  her  by  the  fire,  complaining;  of  headache.  She 
was  not  there.  The  scent  made  the  room  sickly.  A 
sachet  from  her  bureau  lay  broken  on  the  table.  The 
room  was  in  confusion.  Books  were  gone  from  the 
shelves,  pictures  from  the  walls.  Two  chairs,  a  small, 
gate-legged  table,  a  pair  of  Lowestoft  bowls,  and  some 
long  silver  taper  sticks,  as  slim  as  lily  stalks,  had  been 
taken  from  their  places.  They  stood  on  the  floor  beside 
her  bureau.  Other  things,  books,  miniatures,  netsukes, 
tsuba,  lay  in  a  little  pile  under  the  window.  All  the 
things  so  separated  were  hers.  Lying  apart  from  the 
others,  they  gave  to  his  sensitive  mind  an  impression 
of  her  personality  extended  to  her  possessions.  It  was 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          377 

as  though  she  stood  in  those  heaps,  holding  her  skirts 
tightly  to  her,  guarding  against  the  contamination  of 
contact  with  anything  that  was  his.  An  implied  judg- 
ment was  evident.  Her  things  were  the  sheep,  his 
things  were  the  goats.  The  little  islands  on  the  floor 
were  eloquent  of  the  bitterness  of  her  shrinking.  She 
had  been  there,  it  was  her  work.  Where  was  she  now  ? 
He  went  to  her  bedroom. 

The  stale  scent  from  discarded  sachets  made  him 
open  the  window;  the  room  reeked  with  it.  On  the 
bed,  lying  face  downwards  on  broken  glass,  was  his 
portrait;  a  small  red  chalk  drawing  done  the  year 
before.  It  had  hung  in  an  old  carved  frame  of  Rhoda's. 
She  had  ripped  it  from  its  place,  so  that  she  might  take 
her  frame.  The  work  had  been  done  fiercely,  with  a 
chisel.  The  drawing  had  been  flung  down  fiercely,  with 
a  "  There.  Take  your  drawing.  Let  me  have  my 
frame." 

The  room  had  been  rifled.  The  drawers  from  the 
chest  lay  empty  on  the  floor.  She  had  taken  everything 
except  the  things  which  might  remind  her  of  him.  In 
the  cupboard  where  her  dresses  used  to  hang  was  a 
scabious-blue  gown  trimmed  with  Irish  lace.  He  had 
given  it  to  her  when  she  was  ill.  Under  it  were  two 
or  three  hair  pins,  a  couple  of  pill-boxes  containing 
camphor,  and  a  packet  of  his  letters  to  her.  They  were 
his  love-letters.  He  opened  one  of  them.  He  read  a 
few  lines  wondering  what  devil  had  possessed  him.  All 
this  talk  of  beloved,  and  beauty,  and  exquisite  sweet 
lovely  darling.  He  shuddered  with  disgust.  Life  could 
play  these  tricks  on  people.  She  had  suffered,  too.  He 
would  not  make  her  a  victim.  She  was  a  human  soul, 
every  whit  as  important  and  as  foolish  as  himself,  in  the 
eyes  of  God.  The  sight  of  the  broken  glass  on  the  bed 
made  him  bitter  again.  What  is  this  fever?  It  must 
have  a  germ,  like  other  fevers.  It  runs  a  well-marked 


378          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

feverish  course,  of  incubation,  excitement,  light-headed- 
ness,  followed  by  violent  revulsion.  It  makes  man 
behave  like  a  germ  in  a  disease.  It  is  a  disease.  Writers 
have  written  of  it  as  though  it  were  the  only  good,  the 
only  happiness,  the  only  wisdom.  Writers  wouldn't  be 
writers,  he  thought,  if  they  could  do  anything  more 
manly.  They  are  in  a  conspiracy  to  make  the  world's 
soul  soft.  He  flamed. 

He  went  into  his  study.  The  fire  was  burning.  The 
grate  was  littered  with  ashes  and  half -burnt  papers. 
A  blackened,  fire-twisted  silver  photograph-frame  stuck 
from  between  the  bars.  "  Her  photograph,"  he 
muttered.  The  letters  were  her  love-letters.  Papers 
from  his  desk  were  scattered  everywhere.  She  had 
rummaged  through  his  belongings  in  her  thirst  for 
vengeance  upon  the  dead  self  of  her  who  had  accepted 
him.  Things  which  she  had  given  him  were  stamped 
in  the  wastepaper  basket.  He  looked  at  them  in  a 
queer  mood  between  tears  and  blasphemy.  "  Nervous 
fury/'  he  muttered,  savagely.  The  next  moment  he 
found  himself  pitying  her,  understanding  her.  It  was 
so  like  her.  She  was  always  a  shy,  retiring  creature. 
Her  mood  now  was  her  normal  mood  maddened.  Her 
fury  was  a  fury  of  purification.  In  his  own  self-con- 
demnation he  treated  her  image  with  much  such  bitter- 
ness. Both  had  been  betrayed  by  life.  In  different 
ways  they  loathed  the  evidence  of  the  betrayal.  The 
fire  flared  up  swiftly  at  the  photograph.  It  lit  a  roll 
of  paper  that  lay,  not  yet  burnt,  among  the  litter  in  the 
grate.  It  was  the  manuscript  of  his  "  Theory  of  Life." 
Rage  rose  up  in  him  at  the  sight  of  it.  He  beat  out  the 
flames  with  the  tongs,  knocking  oif  flakes  of  paper  from 
the  outer  sheets.  "  Theory  of  life,"  he  thought.  "  Man's 
theory  of  life,  before  he  meets  woman,  is  generally  re- 
written later."  He  left  the  study.  In  the  dining-room 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          379 

a  maid  was  laying  the  table  for  dinner.  She  looked  at 
him  strangely.  She  was  puzzled. 

"  Mrs.  Heseltine  left  a  letter  for  you,  sir/'  she  said. 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  said.     "  What  time  did  she  get  here  ?  " 

"  About  eleven,  sir."  She  handed  him  a  letter.  He 
thanked  her.  He  put  it  into  his  pocket.  Dinner  was 
almost  ready,  the  maid  assured  him.  He  loitered  in 
the  dining-room,  reading  an  evening  paper.  Presently 
he  went  to  dress. 

In  his  dressing-room,  he  opened  the  letter,  and  read 
it  through,  sitting  on  his  little  cot  bed: — 

PUDSEY. 

DEAR  LIONEL, — You  will  agree  with  me  that  our 
marriage  hasn't  been  a  success.  It  is  idle  to  pretend 
that  we  can  live  together.  I  do  not  care  to  go  into  the 
rights  and  wrongs  again.  That  would  only  be  more 
humiliation  for  me.  I  was  willing  to  consult  your  con- 
venience before  mine;  but  men  seem  incapable  of  appre- 
ciating a  woman's  point  of  view.  Dollisons  will  come 
for  my  things  to-morrow;  kindly  let  them  have  them. 
I  hope  your  work  is  going  well.  It  is  a  pity  that  you 
cannot,  for  all  your  cleverness — that  you  cannot  learn 
that  there  are  more  beautiful  things  in  life  for  a  woman 
than  the  life  you  offered  me.  But  thank  you.  I  know 
quite  well  that  you  meant  kindly.  Only  I  am  not  the 
sort  of  woman  to  accept  a  low  valuation  from  the  man 
with  whom  I  choose  to  live.  It  is  a  small  matter,  and  it 
is  over  now,  but  something  you  said  to  me.  We  won't 
go  into  it  all  again.  Even  if  I  wrote  it  you  wouldn't 
understand.  I  feel  hot  all  over  when  I  think  of  it. 

For  the  present  I  shall  stay  with  Dora.  The  country 
will  soon  be  looking  lovely.  We  are  leaving  the  cottage. 
I  hope  you  will  have  the  good  sense  to  see  that  since 
the  gods  have  denied  certain  things  it  will  not  be  the 
slightest  good  your  coming  to  see  me.  I  bear  you  no 


380          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

malice,  though  you  have  wrecked  my  life.  But  I  do 
not  wish  to  be  reminded  of  that  fact  more  than  is  neces- 
sary. Some  day,  perhaps.  At  present  I  wish  to  forget. 
I  hear  from  people  here  that  your  great  scheme  is  col- 
lapsing. You  will  be  disappointed,  as  you  were  very 
keen  about  it,  but  I  daresay  your  clever  friends  will  see 
more  of  you  when  it  is  all  over.  I  am  much  better  here. 
The  air  suits  me.  I  have  not  been  very  light  of  heart, 
as  you  may  imagine;  but  there  are  delightful  people 
coming  here,  and  I  "see  the  dawn  glow  through!  " 
Dora,  who  wishes  to  be  remembered  to  you,  asks  you 
to  send  back  her  copy  of  La  Rafale  if  you  have  done 
with  it. — Yours  sincerely,  R.H. 

The  letter  stunned  his  mind.  After  reading  it,  he 
felt  as  though  a  heavy  blow  had  fallen  within  him. 
After  the  numbness  came  acute  pain.  His  nature  cried 
out  for  her.  He  saw  her  with  savage  intensity.  He 
realised  what  she  was.  She  was  blindingly  clear  in  his 
mind,  her  ways,  her  beauty,  her  tenderness.  Every 
memory  of  her  burned  him.  Every  memory  rankled 
with  reproach.  She  was  gone,  he  had  lost  her.  It  was 
as  though  she  had  died.  The  letter  made  all  the  differ- 
ence. He  wanted  her  back.  If  she  would  come  back. 
She  could  not  mean  to  go  out  of  his  life.  She  was  so 
beautiful,  so  delicate,  so  dainty.  Her  philosophy  was 
a  finer  thing  than  his.  He  had  been  to  blame.  He 
had  made  no  allowances.  "  Rhoda.  Rhoda.  Come 
back  to  me  here." 

He  read  the  letter  through  again,  as  he  sat  at  table, 
mechanically  swallowing  food.  The  food  was  like  coke 
in  his  throat,  yet  the  act  of  eating  changed  his  mood. 
His  mind  seemed  to  be  full  of  rolls  of  smoke.  The  smoke 
of  a  mood  surged  up,  swallowing  other  moods;  then  it 
volleyed  out,  and  hurried,  and  backed,  chased  by  other 
moods  till  all  the  moods  of  man  were  at  battle  in  him. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          381 

Out  of  the  welter,  a  mood  of  disgust  rolled,  covering  the 
agony  by  clouding  his  vanity.  He  had  been  set  aside, 
rejected,  cast  off.  That  hurt.  Who  was  she,  with  her 
gossamer  arts,  to  judge  him?  Vanity  is  unforgiving. 
Wounds  to  honour  may  be  wiped  out,  injuries  to  the 
soul  may  be  forgiven,  a  prick  to  the  vanity  festers  till 
death.  Pity  for  himself  (the  only  known  antidote  to 
wounded  vanity,  though  few  can  stand  enough  of  it  to 
effect  a  cure)  obscured  the  wound  for  a  moment.  He 
had  this  to  fight  against,  this,  besides  his  other  troubles. 
Life  was  not  much  fun,  he  thought.  To  be  struck  like 
this,  and  tossed  to  one  side,  when  the  brain  was  already 
reeling  in  him.  Among  the  bitternesses,  that  of  being 
judged  by  a  woman  was  one  of  the  most  cruel.  She 
could  not  have  timed  her  blow  more  shrewdly. 

In  the  blur  of  his  mind  he  felt  a  personality  stepping 
clear  of  the  swathes  of  mood.  He  felt  himself  saying, 
"  I  must  think  of  my  work.  I  shall  have  to  do  a  lot 
more  work.  Work  will  kill  any  grief. "  A  pang  of  self- 
pity  made  him  make  the  feeling  remark  that  "  the  deed 
which  lessens  a  creature's  faith  in  life  is  the  sinful  deed." 
"  Sin  itself  is  little  compared  with  its  results."  He  went 
from  his  feast  of  ashes  to  the  sitting-room,  where  the 
collection  of  Rhoda's  things  seemed  to  him  like  Rhoda 
defiant,  daring  him  to  touch  her.  There  was  something 
deadly  in  their  separation;  they  bristled,  they  showed 
teeth. 

He  read  through  the  letter  for  the  third  time,  before 
he  put  it  into  the  fire.  It  flared  up,  burnt  to  black, 
and  whisked  away  lightly  up  the  chimney.  "  So 
things  come  to  an  end,"  he  thought.  "  And  how  am  I 
to  face  life  with  Rhoda  gone  and  the  work  ruined  ?  " 
In  a  couple  of  weeks  the  work  would  be  over.  His 
heart  and  mind  would  be  empty  pockets.  "  What  can 
I  do  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  he  thought. 

He  could  go  back  to  the  old  life.     There  is  always 


382          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

famine  in  India.  There  is  Kala-azar.  There  is  beri- 
beri. He  had  read  of  a  parasite  in  green  coffee.  He 
could  qualify.  Pictures  of  the  desolation  of  exile  rose 
in  his  mind.  He  saw  the  camp,  the  desert,  the  grinning 
skull  of  a  moon  laughing  over  the  death  of  the  earth. 

That  again,  after  Rhoda. 

He  saw  the  ward  at  night  full  of  fever  patients.  He 
felt  the  heat,  making  the  air  palpable,  day  a  curse, 
night,  hell.  He  heard  the  mosquitoes  pinging  past. 
He  repeated  a  scrap  of  song,  made  Heaven  knows  by 
whom,  by  some  sufferer,  perhaps,  in  the  days  of  the 
Company,  to  solace  other  sufferers : — 

"  I  get  no  rest  at  night, 
The  damned  mosquitoes  bite, 
Around  me  droning, 
As  I  lie  moaning." 

How  could  he  go  back  to  that,  after  Rhoda,  after  the 
life  in  town?  He  could  never  face  that  womanless  life 
again.  He  had  known  a  home.  How  could  he  face 
exile  again?  It  would  be  bitterness  unbearable.  It 
would  be  death,  the  torment  after  death.  What  other 
thing  could  he  do  ? 

He  could  go  away,  he  told  himself.  There  were 
places  to  see,  historical  places,  ground  to  go  over.  He 
might  get  military  employment  somewhere,  or  take  to 
writing  military  history.  British  military  history  is 
mostly  a  bloody  comment  on  our  administration. 
Most  of  our  wars  spring  from  the  terrors  of  our  politi- 
cians. To  set  that  down,  so  that  men  might  know  the 
spots  on  England's  fame,  and  resolve  to  add  no  more, 
seemed  a  fair  resolve.  He  thought  of  campaigns.  The 
French  in  Ireland.  He  could  go  over  the  ground  from 
both  sides,  acting,  now  the  French  commander,  now 
the  English.  Longing  to  get  further  away  turned  his 
mind  westward.  He  could  go  over  the  Wilderness 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY         383 

Campaign.  He  roused  himself  from  his  misery  at  the 
thought.  "  The  South  was  fine,"  he  muttered.  "  The 
South  was  fine."  He  fell  to  unprofitable  musings  on 
the  luck  of  war.  If  Johnston  had  lived  an  hour  more 
at  Shiloh.  If  Stuart  had  been  with  Lee  at  Gettysburg. 
If  Jackson  had  not  ridden  to  the  front  after  Chancellors- 
ville.  If  the  horse  could  have  gone  on  after  First 
Manassas.  If  Jackson  had  come  after  McLellan.  If 
Malvern  Hill  had  been  seized.  He  served  himself  a 
variety  of  dainty  military  dishes .  ' '  Lord, ' '  he  muttered. 
"  The  fine  are  beaten  every  time.  Nature  is  against 
the  fine."  He  was  being  beaten. 

He  felt  very  lonely.  Pity  for  himself  made  him 
tender  to  the  world:  but  the  tenderness  soon  passed. 
"  Perhaps,"  he  muttered.  "  Perhaps  life  is  only  a  sport. 
We  may  be  doing  all  this  folly  because  some  joltering 
silly  sun  got  loose  in  Heaven.  We're  civilised.  But 
we're  afraid  of  life,  and  we're  old  at  fifty."  Images  of 
happier  men  came  into  his  mind;  Arabs  at  the  reed 
play,  Scots  at  the  ford,  after  a  raid.  Indians  rounding 
up  horses.  Other  images  came  to  him.  They  floated 
into  his  brain  from  nowhere.  Memories  came  back. 
They  were  so  clear  that  they  hurt.  "  It  must  be  agony 
to  remember  when  one  is  dying,"  he  said.  A  sea  full 
of  mystery  glimmered  in  his  mind;  it  was  the  colour  of 
dark  slate.  It  was  an  Irish  sea.  His  mother  must 
have  looked  upon  it  many  times.  The  sea,  with  a  far- 
away island,  the  sea-beach  broken  by  a  brook.  He 
had  not  seen  the  place  for  years.  Near  the  shore  of 
the  sea  there  grew  the  devil's  bit  scabious.  All  his 
thoughts  came  home  in  the  end  to  Rhoda.  Very 
keenly,  like  a  slowly  entering  spear,  the  thought  of 
what  might  have  been  came  to  him.  They  might  have 
been  sitting  hand  in  hand  by  the  fire,  talking  of  a  new 
life  coming  to  them,  a  life  which  they  would  shape, 
avoiding  what  had  marred  themselves.  In  a  few  years 


384          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

...  He  had  always  been  gentle  to  the  idea  of  children. 
Thinking  of  the  children  denied  to  him  made  the  blow 
harder.  "  Women  must  ache  all  through,"  he  thought. 
"  The  want  of  a  child  must  eat  them  up  from  within." 
He  turned  down  that  page,  with  a  glimpse  of  his  son 
diving  naked  from  a  rock,  a  clean  deep  dive,  disciplined 
swiftness.  He  felt  again  as  he  had  felt  before  at  the 
burials  of  relatives,  that  the  House  of  Heseltine  brooded 
about  him,  wherever  he  went.  All  the  Hesel tines  "  who 
lived  and  died  lang  syne  "  seemed  gathered  in  the  room, 
invisibly,  but  sensibly,  watching  their  last  descendant. 
Pity  for  the  dead  who  have  never  lived  rose  up  in  him. 
Uncles  who  had  loitered  through  life,  hunting,  shooting, 
as  though  time  itself  were  a  thing  to  be  killed,  aunts 
who  had  done  poker-work  and  regretted  the  intemper- 
ance of  the  poor;  the  brother  killed  in  the  war;  the 
little  girl  sister  whom  he  had  never  seen.  They  were 
all  there.  They  were  pathetic,  they  cut  the  heart.  His 
mother,  a  grave  figure,  was  there,  his  father,  all  the 
long  generations,  ten  generations,  with  shadowy  Scots 
beyond,  all  there,  all  watching,  interested,  dispassionate, 
they  would  only  sigh  whatever  happened.  "  Death 
must  be  that,"  he  thought.  "A  dispassionate  looking 
on  at  the  results,  with  a  quickening  of  interest  when  the 
end  comes."  He  sat  silent  for  a  while.  "  If  I'm  not  to 
succeed,  it  seems  too  trivial,"  he  said  aloud.  The  world 
was  in  a  tangle.  Tangles  are  sometimes  interesting:  it 
is  pleasant  to  unravel  them.  But  why  should  he  go  on 
with  the  unravelling  of  this  tangle  ?  What  would  be  his 
reward  ?  Who  would  care  ?  No  son  would  inherit,  no 
wife  would  share  it.  Besides,  the  thing  was  at  an  end. 
The  time  was  unripe,  or  the  measures  were  unwise;  it 
did  not  matter  which.  "  I'm  not  going  on  with  it,"  he 
said. 

Having  said  that  he  felt  more  at  ease.     Even  a  wrong 
decision  is  pleasant  after  doubt.     "  How  one  is  tricked 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          385 

out  of  death,"  he  thought.  "  We  are  tricked  into  keep- 
ing alive.  Youth  doesn't  know.  Youth  has  its  toys, 
the  senses.  One  keeps  alive,  thinking  they  will  last. 
Children  drag  one  on  another  stage.  When  they  leave 
home  one  has  work  of  some  sort,  or  the  prospect  of 
retirement  from  work.  So  we  go  on,  till  the  ills  of  old 
age  get  hold  of  us.  It's  a  losing  game  and  a  stupid 
game."  He  unlocked  a  drawer  and  took  out  his  re- 
volver-case. As  he  laid  it  on  the  table  he  wondered  if 
it  were  fair  to  Rhoda.  His  brain  was  very  clear,  but 
he  saw  all  his  thoughts  as  pictures.  He  found  it  hard 
to  put  them  into  words.  Could  Rhoda  care  for  some 
other  man?  He  had  heard  rumours.  People  had 
hinted.  Well,  she  should  be  free.  If  she  loved  another 
man  she  should  be  free  to  go  to  him.  He  unlocked  the 
case  and  took  out  the  revolver. 

He  had  not  looked  at  the  weapon  since  he  left  Africa, 
eighteen  months  before.  It  was  rusty.  The  catch  had 
jammed.  The  chambers  were  so  stiff  that  they  would 
not  revolve.  The  cartridges  littered  in  the  case  were 
foul.  "  Oil  and  a  feather,"  he  muttered.  "  Where  can 
I  get  a  bit  of  rag?  " 

A  piece  of  gauze  lay  on  the  floor.  It  was  a  piece  from 
one  of  Rhoda' s  blue  veils.  He  picked  it  up.  "  This'll 
do,"  he  said.  He  began  to  wipe  the  cartridges.  He 
had  wiped  a  dozen  or  more  before  he  remembered  that 
he  would  only  need  one.  For  a  long  time  after  that,  he 
sat  staring  into  the  fire,  with  the  revolver  on  his  knees. 

The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  chimed  for  nine.  The 
noise  of  the  notes  roused  him.  He  picked  up  the 
weapon,  pointed  it  from  him  and  pressed  the  trigger 
to  cock  it.  The  trigger  was  stiff  with  rust.  "  The 
thing  won't  cock,"  he  muttered.  The  damp  of  West 
Africa  had  fouled  the  mechanism.  "  Pull,  you  swine," 
he  said  irritably.  He  crooked  his  finger  hard,  three  or 
four  times,  against  the  trigger,  At  the  last  pressure 

2B 


386          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

the  thing  gave;  there  followed  a  flash-shock-bang. 
Coals  leaped  from  the  grate ;  the  broken  register  rattled 
into  the  fireplace.  Scraps  struck  the  window.  Lionel 
dropped  the  revolver.  It  struck  his  foot  and  fell  on  the 
hearthrug.  "  What  the  devil,"  he  said,  shaking. 
"  Good  Lord,  that  startled  me."  Soot  fell  blazing  into 
the  fireplace.  A  servant  entered,  holding  the  door  wide. 

"  Mrs.  Drummond,  sir,"  she  said.  Mrs.  Drummond 
walked  swiftly  into  a  room  full  of  the  stink  of  powder. 
A  draught  made  by  the  opening  of  the  door  beat  smoke 
from  the  soot. 

"  You're  not  shot?  "  she  said.  "  What  is  it?  "  He 
looked  at  her  stupidly.  The  revolver  lay  on  the  floor. 
In  the  middle  of  the  hearthrug  a  bit  of  coal  burnt  cheer- 
fully with  a  resolute  butterfly  of  flame.  The  door  closed. 
The  noise  of  the  shutting  of  the  door  seemed  to  shut 
something  in  his  skull. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked  again.  She  was  very  white ; 
her  eyes  searched  his.  The  room  was  sudden  with 
horror.  Moments  in  dreams  are  like  that.  His  guilty 
face,  the  room,  the  coal  on  the  rug.  She  trod  out  the 
burning.  Still  her  eyes  made  questions.  The  room 
was  tense.  Something  had  been  killed  in  it,  a  will,  a 
purpose. 

"  What  were  you  doing?  "  she  said,  "  what  were  you 
doing?" 

"  The  gun  went  off,"  he  said. 

"I  thought,"  she  said,  doubting.  "  I  thought." 
She  stopped.  She  took  him  by  the  arm,  gazing  at  him, 
her  face  all  drawn.  "  Were  you  going  to  kill  yourself?  " 
He  shook  his  head,  in  his  sullen  way.  He  broke  into  a 
silly  laughter.  "  I  was  never  so  frightened  in  my  life," 
he  said.  The  laughter  was  like  shuddering.  She 
soothed  him.  She  pressed  him  back  into  his  chair, 
murmuring,  talking,  giving  him  no  chance  to  talk. 

"  I  couldn't  come  before,"  she  said.     "  I've  been  in 


THE  STREET  OF  XO-pAY          387 

Spain.  I've  been  seeing  Sir  Pica.  He's  going  to  take 
on  the  Brigade/'  • 

"Sir  Pica?" 

"  I've  seen  him.  Here  a?e  the  papers."  He  stared 
at  her  till  the  meaning  of  her  words  had  reached  him. 
They  sat  for  long  minutes  staring  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  You  must  let  me  do  this  with  you,"  she  said,  at 
last,  speaking  hurriedly.  "  I've  been  acting  for  you. 
I've  been  taking  your  name  in  vain.  He  wants  us  to  go 
to  him  on  Sunday  morning.  He's  going  to  enlarge  the 
Brigade,  and  use  tit  all  over  England  to  distribute  his 
papers.  He  controls  fifty-seven  papers.  He's  a  very 
wonderful  man.  He  is  a  sort  of  man  I've  prayed  for. 
A  man,  with  a  will  and  intellect  like  that,  who  has 
learned  that  he  has  a  duty  to  mankind.  He  is  quite 
without  a  heart.  There  is  something  large  and  in- 
coherent in  him.  It  is  the  English  way,  I  think.  Mr. 
Cecil  Rhodes.  Napoleon  was  clear  fire.  He  speaks 
slowly,  as  though  his  tongue  were  a  chaff-cutter  chopping 
off  bits  of  mind.  He  said  '  Papers  take  the  place  of 
thought  and  occupation  in  twenty-five  million  English 
people.  They're  as  necessary  as  blood  and  air.  I  saw 
that.  I  gave  the  papers.  I've  been  favoured.  This 
land  made  things  very  easy.  I've  been  able  to  do 
certain  things.  Latterly  I've  come  to  see  that  I'm 
leaving  bad  cards  for  the  men  who  come  after  me.  I 
don't  know  what's  to  come  to  those  men.'  He  was 
interesting  about  it.  An  American  would  have  been 
crude.  He  agreed  that  you  should  be  left  in  command. 
He  wants  to  see  you.  I  think  he  has  a  prejudice  against 
your  opponents.  They  are  the  biggest  enemies  he  has. 
He  is  willing  to  keep  on  your  papers,  too." 

She  stopped  speaking,  so  that  she  might  search  his 
face  again.  "How  are  you  now?"  she  asked.  Her 
eyes  fell  upon  the  revolver.  The  faintest  wisp  of 
vapour  still  curled  from  the  muzzle.  The  weapon 


388          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

pointed  at  her  feet.  He  looked  at  the  revolver.  He 
picked  it  up  from  the  floor,  and  stood  doubtfully,  facing 
her. 

"  The  gun,"  he  said.  "  I  didn't  know  it  was  loaded." 
He  caught  her  shoulder.  "  Are  you  tired  out  ?  You've 
been  travelling?  I'll  get  soup."  He  called  to  the 
servants.  He  waited  on  her.  After  she  had  eaten,  he 
left  the  room.  He  stood  stupidly  in  the  bath-room 
wondering  why  he  had  come  there.  He  swilled  his  face 
and  hands  under  the  cold  water  tap. 

He  came  back  to  the  sitting-room.  He  cleared  the 
table,  man-fashion,  by  putting  everything  on  the  floor. 
The  revolver  was  gone. 

"I've  not  done  rashly?"  she  asked.  "I've  not 
presumed?  " 

He  took  her  hands.  He  was  biting  his  lips  to  hide  his 
feeling.  His  wet  hair  was  touzled  from  the  towel. 
"  Dear  woman,"  he  said.  "  Dear  woman."  * 

"  You  won't  ?  You  won't  ?  "  she  said.  He  noticed  her 
great  burning  eyes  smiling  at  him  while  the  brain  behind 
them  searched  his  face  for  danger  signals.  The  heaps 
of  feminine  things  upon  the  floor  hinted  at  separation. 

"  She  has  .  .  .     Your  wife?     Where  is  your  wife?  " 

"  It's  a  sad  business,"  he  said.  "  The  East  is  wise. 
We've  produced  something  unfit  for  life."  He  looked 
into  his  friend's  eyes ;  she  looked  down. 

"  We  must  make  something  fit  for  life,"  she  said. 

"  Let  me  see  those  papers,"  he  said. 

"  Not  here,"  she  said.  "  I've  telegraphed  to  my 
friend,  Kitty  Minot.  I'm  going  down  to  Coin  St. 
Michael  to-night.  You're  coming,  too.  The  train's  at 
10.45  fr°m  Paddington.  You  will  be  in  bed  by  one. 
I'm  coming  to  help  you  pack.  To-morrow  we'll  have 
rested  heads."  He  was  over-ruled.  They  packed 
together.  "  Like  packing  for  Ireland,"  she  said. 

"  A  year  late  for  Coin  St.  Michael,"  he  answered. 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          389 

"  All  the  warmer  welcome/'  she  said,  "  for  your 
mother's  son." 

They  did  not  talk  in  the  train.  It  was  freezing  hard. 
An  inch  or  more  of  snow  had  fallen.  They  sat  together, 
using  his  great-coat  as  a  rug.  He  listened  to  her  steady 
breathing.  Glancing  at  her,  he  saw  her  great  dark 
eyes  looking  ahead. 

"  Cold  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I'm  thinking  of  the  future,"  she  said. 

"  You  may  trust  me  not  to  spoil  the  future." 

"  I  shall  trust  you." 

"  It's  stopped  snowing." 

They  got  out  at  Coin  St.  Michael.  A  sleepy  porter 
shambled  along  the  platform  with  a  lantern.  He 
looked  like  the  porter  in  Macbeth.  Coming  out  of  the 
night  at  them  he  seemed  inhuman,  they  expected  him 
to  speak  poetry.  It  was  stinging  cold  on  the  platform. 
The  train's  yellow  lights  moved  slowly  away;  the  rear 
light  faded  to  a  point.  The  noise  of  their  voices  seemed 
very  loud  in  that  still  place. 

"  Jarge  'aven't  brought  the  cart,  Miss  Drummond," 
said  the  porter. 

"  We  must  walk,  then,"  she  said. 

"  I'll  carry  the  bags,"  said  Lionel.  He  picked  them 
up,  one  in  each  hand.  The  other  things  could  come  on 
in  the  morning. 

"  You'll  be  tired  out,"  he  said. 

"Not  in  this  cold.  I  love  the  cold.  The  night's 
bettering." 

Outside,  the  wolds  lay  white  under  the  stars.  The 
storm  had  blown  by;  the  sky  was  frosty.  Every  star 
burned  as  though  it  were  Christmas  Eve.  Far  below, 
in  the  valley,  St.  Michael's  brook  fell  drowsily,  from  a 
pool  half  frozen,  down  a  fall  half  icicle.  The  snow  crisped 
under  foot.  They  set  out  up  the  hill  to  the  cottage. 

"  Miss  Minot  will  be  startled,"  he  said. 


390         THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  She'll  be  delighted.  She'll  be  sitting  up."  They 
tramped  on  up  the  wold,  past  houses,  past  farms  where 
the  dogs  barked,  past  the  church  with  its  yews.  The 
houses  were  magical  in  their  beauty  in  the  twilight  of 
a  snowy  night.  The  ricks  by  the  roadside  looked  snug 
under  their  conical  tops,  powdered  with  snow.  It  was 
freezing  hard.  Passing  a  byre  they  smelt  the  warm 
sweet  smell  of  cattle.  Hoofs  rustled  among  straw;  a 
cow  breathed.  The  stars  looked  down.  Heaven  was 
thick  with  stars.  The  night  burnt  with  eyes,  souls 
focussed  to  a  point  of  burning,  watching  the  travellers. 

"  There's  the  Roman  camp,"  she  said.  "  Up  above. 
You  see  the  line  of  it." 

"  The  Romans  looked  on  this,  too." 

"  This  is  their  road." 

"  It  makes  the  night  strange,"  he  said.  "  Souls  as 
full  of  strangeness  as  ours  have  been  walking  here." 
He  thought  of  the  Romans.  Old  Rome  is  a  forever 
blowing  trumpet  to  the  manly  in  men.  "  They  marched 
and  damned  the  baggage  cattle,"  he  said.  "  And 
slept  on  the  hill  there.  Perhaps  a  man  who  saw  Christ 
slept  there." 

"  Perhaps  a  man  who  saw  Shakespeare  went  to 
America." 

"  Perhaps  a  man  who  saw  us  will  found  anew  religion." 

"  A  religion  for  human  beings,  then.  A  religion  of 
the  holiness  of  life.  We  are  all  bread  and  wine  at  a 
sacrament." 

"  I  know.  But  I  don't  see  it  so,"  he  said.  "  We're 
passionate  earth.  We're  worms  sticking  out  our 
heads.  Venice  is  only  a  worm-cast." 

"  We're  earth  with  a  spirit  passing  through  it." 

"A  kind  of  filter?" 

"  Yes.  Soul-strainers.  I  wonder  if  I  am  wasting 
this  instant,  under  ail  those  stars." 

"  The  universe  conspires  for  us,  to-night." 


THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY          391 

"  Doesn't  the  beauty  of  it  make  you  tingle?  " 

"  It  makes  me  want  to  know.  To  know  you  better, 
first.  Will  you  tell  me  about  yourself  ?  " 

"  Tell  you  the  facts.     It's  the  endeavour  that  counts." 

"  I  want  to  know  how  you  grew  to  be  so  beautiful." 

"  Beautiful?  "  she  said.  "  It  is  what  one  strives  for. 
A  woman's  life  is  just  that  one  striving.  To  bring  all 
the  bad  points  under,  so  that  the  real  self  can  come, 
and  then  to  bring  that  under,  so  that  the  self  beyond 
can  come.  And  then  to  give  it  all  to  the  world  so  that 
the  world  beyond  may  come." 

"  We  make  the  world  beyond." 

"  My  friend,"  she  said,  pausing  at  a  garden  gate. 
"  This  is  the  cottage.  Let  us  stop  for  a  moment. 
There  must  be  a  consecration.  Our  friendship  must 
be  like  this  night.  Give  me  your  hand  on  that." 

He  gave  his  hand.  They  stood  there  for  half  a 
minute. 

"  You  must  speak  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  only  know  a  grace." 

"  Say  that,  then." 

"  Consecrate  this  bread  to  Thy  service." 

"  Amen,"  he  said.  They  entered  the  garden.  Little 
dry  flurrits  of  snow  brushed  from  the  yew  boughs  on  to 
their  sleeves.  There  was  a  smell  of  wood-smoke.  The 
cottage  windows  glowed  warm.  The  gate-latch  clicked 
behind  the  friends  as  they  walked  up  the  little  path. 

"  Kit-ty,"  Mrs.  Drummond  cried.  A  shadow  passed 
across  the  lower  window.  There  was  a  rattling  at  the 
door  chain.  The  door  opened,  showing  Kitty  Minot. 
The  light  was  mellow  within  the  house,  warm  with 
welcome,  friendly. 

"  Mary." 

"  I've  brought  Mr.  Heseltine." 

"  Come  in.  Come  in."  The  women  embraced  in 
the  doorway.  Lionel  looked  away. 


392          THE  STREET  OF  TO-DAY 

"  Mr.  Hesel tine's  tired  out/'  said  Mary  Drummond. 
"  He  must  have  my  room.  I'll  sleep  with  you." 

"  Come  in.  Come  in,"  said  Kitty  Minot,  giving  her 
hand. 

"  What  a  lovely  blaze.  How  kind  of  you,  Kitty," 
said  Mrs.  Drummond.  "  We've  been  nearly  perished. 
Come  in,  Mr.  Heseltine,  and  get  warm  by  the  fire." 
They  sat  down,  all  three,  before  a  burning  beech-log. 

"  Welcome  home,"  said  Kitty  Minot. 

There  was  a  fragrance  in  the  room,  of  rose-pourri 
and  wood-smoke.  On  dressers  at  each  side  of  the  fire- 
place was  the  Minot  china.  A  clock  ticked,  like  Time's 
pulse.  The  beech-log,  charred  through,  broke,  sending 
up  a  shower  of  sparks.  Something  in  Mary  Drummond's 
face  as  she  looked  at  her  friend  gave  him  a  sense  of  being 
among  eternal  things,  in  a  Rule  of  beauty,  where  peace 
was  daily  bread. 

Life  is  a  wild  flame.  It  flickers,  the  wind  blows  it, 
the  tides  drown  it.  Perfect  life,  or  that  which  we  on 
earth  call  God,  is  no  thunderous  thing,  clothed  in  the 
lightning,  but  something  lovely  and  unshaken  in  the 
mind,  in  the  minds  about  us,  that  burns  like  a  star  for 
us  to  march  by,  through  all  the  night  of  the  soul. 


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